Page:The collected works of Henrik Ibsen (Heinemann Volume 1).pdf/345

 [collecting himself]. I? What should make you think so? I observe. Your eyes are glued to the verandah yonder— You're studying, mayhap, its arches' curve, Or can it be its pillars' strength you ponder, The door perhaps, with hammered iron hinges? The window blinds, and their artistic fringes? From something there your glances never wander. No, you are wrong—I'm just absorbed in being— Drunk with the hour—naught craving, naught foreseeing. I feel as though I stood, my life complete, With all earth's riches scattered at my feet. Thanks for your song of happiness and spring— From out my inmost heart it seemed to spring. [Lifts his glass and exchanges a glance, unobserved, with  Here's to the blossom in its fragrant pride! What reck we of the fruit of autumn-tide? [Empties his glass.

[''looks at him with surprise and emotion, but assumes a light tone''].

Behold, fair ladies! though you scorn me quite, Here I have made an easy proselyte. His hymn-book yesterday was all he cared for— To-day e'en dithyrambics he's prepared for!