Page:The collected works of Henrik Ibsen (Heinemann Volume 1).pdf/290

 The phial—doth a secret draught contain; A drop of this in my—enemy's cup, And his life would sicken and wither up; The leech's skill would be tried in vain.

Were I sure that Gudmund—held me dear— Then little I'd care for—

You, Margit, here? And alone? I have sought you everywhere.

'Tis cool here. I sickened of heat and glare. See you how yonder the white mists glide Softly over the marshes wide? Here it is neither dark nor light, But midway between them—

—as in my breast.

Is't not so—when you wander on such a night You hear, though but half to yourself confessed, A stirring of secret life through the hush, In tree and in leaf, in flower and in rush?

Can you guess what I wish?