Page:The collected works of Henrik Ibsen (Heinemann Volume 1).pdf/274

 Our house was lowly and scant our store; But treasures of hope in my breast I bore.

E'en then you were growing to beauty rare.

Mayhap; but the praises showered on me Caused the wreck of my happiness—that I now see. To far-off lands away you sailed; But deep in my heart was graven each song You had ever sung; and their glamour was strong; With a mist of dreams my brow they veiled. In them all the joys you had dwelt upon That can find a home in the beating breast; You had sung so oft of the lordly life 'Mid knights and ladies. And lo! anon Came wooers a many from east and from west; And so—I became Bengt Gauteson's wife.

Oh, Margit!

The days that passed were but few Ere with tears my folly I 'gan to rue. To think, my kinsman and friend, on thee Was all the comfort left to me. How empty now seemed Solhoug's hall, How hateful and drear its great rooms all!