I saw no ensorcelled maidens, neither in ballet slippers nor in ring-byrnies. But in the shallow water swam fish, wise and well-fed and thus not for the catching. Still, I wondered if one might not, upon eating one, gain the gift of poetry, skáldmælska.
No, wait, wait ... that is another lake. But it is beautiful here, under a mossy mountain like a giant's door jamb, a gatepost before the path to the plains.
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