lady of the lifelong secret;
You who whispered words to
the God of Poetry that said:
“I am Yours.”
Golden were the apples you placed
upon His shrine;
none who knew you, not family, not friends,
knew of your hidden devotion;
they thought your faith
and your worship only for
the desert god,
not He whose name and face had been
all but forgotten for centuries;
but to Bragi, wordsmith,
you poured out your poems, songs, and prayers,
leaving the fruit His wife Idunn bore
to the Aesir and Vanir
as further offering to Him.
All your life, you paid homage to Him
in His own coin,
that which He liked best,
and only now, when you have passed beyond
to the hall of the poetry-maker,
do those who were closest to you
–and those who did not know you at all–
learn of the depth of your reverence and devotion to Him.
Therefore, sing, o skalds!
Praise her whose name we may never know,
but whose deeds shine bright as Sunna’s rays,
no longer hidden by stormclouds.
Sing, o skalds, for a life spent
in silent and secret adoration,
pour out mead in her memory,
she who sits among the bards and sages of the oldest times,
in the presence of He whom she honored.
Sing, o skalds, in honored awe
of one who gave us an example to emulate:
may we ever be as pious, as dedicated,
and as virtuous as Bragi’s most faithful.