The glad sun gleamed in the shallows
as we galloped along the sand
under Ólafsvík Headland,
out near the jaws of the land.

Blazing and broad, the fjord
basks there calmly enough:
twelve leagues' travel across it,
two short yards to the bluff.

Ought I to turn and enter
into this black cliffside?
Or sink down beside you, Eggert,
in the sunless depths where you died?