41: Fylliz fjǫrvi feigra manna, rýðr ragna sjǫt rauðum dreyra; svǫrt verða sólskin of sumur eftir, veðr ǫll válynd. Vituð ér enn—eða hvat?	[The wolf] is filled with the life-blood of doomed men, reddens the powers’ dwellings with ruddy gore; the sun-beams turn black the following summers, weather all woeful: do you know yet, or what?
57: Sól tér sortna, sígr fold í mar, hverfa af himni heiðar stjǫrnur. Geisar eimi ok aldrnara, leikr hár hiti við himin sjálfan.	The sun starts to turn black, land sinks into sea; the bright stars scatter from the sky. Steam spurts up with what nourishes life, flame flies high against heaven itself.