The hoofes that slippe 'neath Woden, eahte,
Are follow'd gladly, bryht they tolle.
Golden glemes and leeds the Gods,
To waters still as ise.
Strides, they quiken. Snorts are herde,
A silver mane takes fliht this night.
Sinewes of the Irminsul growe depe,
And beem beyonde the sky.
Hoofes are herde, some are not.
Some are hi'n, yet they ride
All shall trede the shymmeringe path,
Call'd by Hama's golden horne.
[?]
Ehwa, Ehwe, Ehwo.