Out in the fields, one autumn,
when easy southern breezes1
blew, I blew into straw-blades,
blissfully making whistles.
...
am the speeding
spark of light
flung by God
from the forge of Chaos.
...
The star of love
over Steeple Rock
is cloaked in clouds of night.
It laughed, once, from heaven
...
Iceland, fortunate isle! Our beautiful, bountiful mother!
Where are your fortune and fame, freedom and virtue of old?
...
Our land of lakes forever fair
below blue mountain summits,
of swans, of salmon leaping where
...
I just don't enjoy Moon Island,
jolly though it can be
when boisterous breakers wallop
the beach right next to me.
...
Queen of all our country's mountains,
crowned with snow sublime and pure!
Once you poured from fiery fountains
floods of lava down the moor.
...
Brimming springtime brings from sleep
brooks with jaunty prattle,
shaping life anew in sheep --
shepherds too! -- and cattle.
...
They left their sad young sister
and sailed for many a mile:
brothers going birding
and bound for Kolbeinn's Isle.
...