Branches as high as vigilant eye could see,
Magic runes, once scratched into this tree.
An old man sat down at this mighty oak,
Every morning, day by day...
And he closed his eyes
While a gasp blew through its leaves...
And he began to speak...

Land er heilact, er ec liggia sé
ásom oc álfom nær;
enn í Þrúðheimi scal Þórr vera,
unz um riúfaz regin.

ùdalir heita, þar er Ullr hefir
sér um gorva sali;
Álfheim Frey gáfo í árdaga
tívar at tannfé.

Roots as deep as the very depths of heart,
Source for those who know what's still to come...
Man of wisdom and knowledge great,
With hair as white as snow...
The young amongst them in a circle sat
And listened to his voice.
...While he began to speak...

Land er heilact, er ec liggia s©
¡som oc ¡lfom n¦r;
enn ­ žrêàheimi scal îãrr vera,
unz um riêfaz regin.

Ydalir heita, îar er Ullr hefir
s©r um gorva sali;
lfheim Frey g¡fo ­ ¡rdaga
t­var at tannf©.