A low arrow, I search the land
for her silver feet moving leaves
as she follows through spiced fields,
runs, or turns to a bird cry.
My father brings an iron whip
to make her lie with Usnach
who will clasp her roughly
in a dark night without singing.
When she feathers her dawn hair
by the eyes of glittering wells,
I will give her holy corn,
my mother's summer gold
and a five-pointed sea-spear
to help her defy them
who steal near young mountains
like shadows of evening panthers.