The early risers now are blest
When morning’s rays creep toward the west.
For early is the only hour
That one may toil with all one’s pow’r.
By midday Sunna’s heat will scorch,
So strongly now doth burn her torch.
All afternoon the red will climb;
We’ll wistf’ly dream of winter’s rime.
No warning giv’n, the sun doth hide.
What woe does this black cloud betide?
No woe – ‘tis mighty Asa-Thor.
His wain approaches with a roar.
This is no gentle summer breeze-
The wind strips leaves from all the trees!
Blue-tinged bolts flash; great raindrops fall.
The summer storm refreshes all.
The clouds have fled; the sun sinks low.
Where did the day’s long hours go?
As insects sing the land to sleep
Our dreams to hidden worlds may leap.