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 She sang: “The winds from Alfheim
Bring never sound of strife;
The gifts for Frey the meetest
Are not of death, but life.
“He loves the grass-green meadows,
The grazing kine's sweet breath;
He loathes your bloody Horg-stones,
Your gifts that smell of death.
“No wrong by wrong is righted,
No pain is cured by pain;
The blood that smokes from Doom-rings
Falls back in redder rain.
“The gods are what you make them,
As earth shall Asgard prove;
And hate will come of hating,
And love will come of love.
“Make dole of skyr and black bread
That old and young may live;
And look to Frey for favor
When first like Frey you give.
“Even now o'er Njord's sea-meadows
The summer dawn begins:
The tun shall have its harvest,
The fiord its glancing fins.”
Then up and swore Jarl Thorkell:
“By Gimli and by Hel,
O Vala of Thingvalla,
Thou singest wise and well!
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