Where the coast falls between the sea and sky,
Ale has raised a giant ship of stone,
Fair in its setting, when bright ears of rye
To union with the block’s dark quiet have grown,
A saga put ashore
Beside the Baltic’s roar,
A mark with sense known to the sea alone.
In tight formation, these grey masses rise
On guard since ancient times: a haunted hill,
The story goes – where clash of arms and cries
(As from a camp) the autumn darkness fill.
In midst of farmer’s land,
Here Ale took command
On board death’s ship, the last to mind his will.
Great strength still keeps this hummock in its hold.
Iron bit on bronze, when these bold deeds were done.
The sea-kings’ vessel, gone aground in mold,
Sails on its voyage to oblivion.
With stone its prow is stayed,
Of cloud its sails are made,
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