They sing of the golden Sigurd, and the face without a foe, And the lowly man exalted, and the mighty brought alow; And they say, when the sun of summer shall come aback to the land, It shall shine on the fields of the tiller that fears no heavy hand; That the sheaf shall be for the plougher and the loaf for him that sowed Through every furrowed acre where the son of Sigurd rode.

—William Morris, “Story of Sigurd, the Volsung,” Book III, p. 203.