Page:The collected works of Henrik Ibsen (Heinemann Volume 1).pdf/342



I've felt no lyric impulse, truth to tell, From that day forth. My vein appeared to peter Entirely out; and now, if I essay To turn a verse or two for New Year's Day, I make the veriest hash of rhyme and metre, And—I've no notion what the cause can be— It turns to law and not to poetry.

[clinks glasses with him].

And, trust me, you're no whit the worse for that!

[To

You think the stream of life is flowing solely To bear you to the goal you're aiming at— But you may find yourself mistaken wholly. As for your song, perhaps it's most poetic, Perhaps it's not—on that point we won't quarrel— But here I lodge a protest energetic, Say what you will, against its wretched moral. A masterly economy and new To let the birds play havoc at their pleasure Among your fruit-trees, fruitless now for you, And suffer flocks and herds to trample through Your garden, and lay waste its springtide treasure! A pretty prospect, truly, for next year!

Oh, next, next, next! The thought I loathe and fear That these four letters timidly express— It beggars millionaires in happiness!