Page:The collected works of Henrik Ibsen (Heinemann Volume 1).pdf/369

 [picking up a stone]. Then must the owner and the bird be near, Or its song's squandered on a stranger's ear. Yes, that is true; but I've discovered mine. Of speech and song I am denied the power, But when it warbles in its leafy bower, Poems flow in upon my brain like wine— Ah, yes,—they fleet—they are not to be won— [ throws the stone.   screams.

O God, you've hit it! Ah, what have you done!

[She hurries out to the right and then quickly returns.

O pity! pity!

[in passionate agitation].

No,—but eye for eye, Svanhild, and tooth for tooth. Now you'll attend No further greetings from your garden-friend, No guerdon from the land of melody. That is my vengeance: as you slew, I slay.

I slew?

You slew. Until this very day, A clear-voiced song-bird warbled in my soul; See,—now one passing bell for both may toll— You've killed it!