Page:The collected works of Henrik Ibsen (Heinemann Volume 1).pdf/396

 [with emotion]. Nay, Svanhild, do not jest: behind your scoff Tears glitter,—O, I see them plain enough. And I see more: when you to dust are fray'd, And kneaded to a formless lump of clay, Each bungling dilettante's scalpel-blade On you his dull devices shall display. The world usurps the creature of God's hand And sets its image in the place of His, Transforms, enlarges that part, lightens this; And when upon the pedestal you stand Complete, cries out in triumph: "Now she is At last what woman ought to be: Behold, How plastically calm, how marble-cold! Bathed in the lamplight's soft irradiation, How well in keeping with the decoration!" [Passionately seizing her hand.

But if you are to die, live first! Come forth With me into the glory of God's earth! Soon, soon the gilded cage will claim its prize. The Lady thrives there, but the Woman dies, And I love nothing but the Woman in you. There, if they will, let others woo and win you, But here, my spring of life began to shoot, Here my Song-tree put forth its firstling fruit; Here I found wings and flight:—Svanhild, I know it, Only be mine,—here I shall grow a poet!

[''in gentle reproof, withdrawing her hand''].

O, why have you betrayed yourself? How sweet It was when we as friends could freely meet!