Day IV. To Þórr Hlórriði

I call upon the loud-riding Storm God,
the rumbler and stirrer and striker from afar,
Thor who sends the nourishing rain
and winds that shake loose stagnancy
and pollution. You are joyful when you come
home to your wife and many dear children,
quick to laugh and always ready with
a humorous story from your travels,
especially when ale trickles down
your thick red beard, and lovely-eyed
golden Sif is at your side
to wipe it away and kiss the lips
that so often have professed
undying love for her.
Nothing pleases Thor the yeoman’s God
more than plowing Sif’s fields
and scattering seed into the tight furrows,
and many months later reaping
a bounty of swollen fruit and wheat
the color of her lovely curls,
not even walloping ill-tempered þurs
or putting arrogant jarls in their place.