His child Kjnrene of the arms of snow
Had little love for pacings to and fro
Before the loom, nor for feast-revelry
With maiden-friends home-keeping young as she;
But warring with bronze darts without surcease,
And with the hunter’s knife, that princess slew
Fierce beasts of prey. Ay, wide-spread was the peace
And restful that her father’s cattle knew.
But little wasted she upon her eyes
Of slumber, restfellow that sweetly lies
On tired ones, when Dawn’s feet prepare to climb the skies.