Page:The collected works of Henrik Ibsen (Heinemann Volume 1).pdf/393

 The voice that you were born with will not chime to The chorus Custom's baton gives the time to.

And do you think pain has not often pressed Tears from my eyes, and quiet from my breast? I longed to shape my way to my own bent—

"In pensive ease?"

O no, 'twas sternly meant. But then the aunts came in with well-intended Advice, the matter must be sifted, weighed—

[Coming nearer.

"In pensive ease," you say; oh no, I made A bold experiment—in art.

Which ended—?

In failure. I lacked talent for the brush. The thirst for freedom, tho', I could not crush; Checked at the easel, it essayed the stage—

That plan was shattered also, I engage?