Page:The collected works of Henrik Ibsen (Heinemann Volume 1).pdf/291



That I could be The nixie that haunts yonder upland lea. How cunningly I should weave my spell! Trust me—!

Margit, what ails you? Tell!

How I should quaver my magic lay! Quaver and croon it both night and day!

How I would lure the knight so bold Through the greenwood glades to my mountain hold. There were the world and its woes forgot In the burning joys of our blissful lot.

Margit! Margit!

Sweet were our sleep in my lonely bower;— And if death should come with the dawn, I trow 'Twere sweet to die so;—what thinkest thou?

You are sick!