Up on Eagle Lake Highlands,
hours from a byre or barn,
in a world of lonely waters
is one called Sheepfold Tarn.

Beneath the brow of North Ridge
nodding angelica grows;
down through a marshy meadow
a murmuring brooklet flows.

I've seen no place more peaceful,
no place I hold more dear:
ice-cold Eiríkur's Glacier
knows everything spoken here.