Page:The collected works of Henrik Ibsen (Heinemann Volume 1).pdf/398

 [with suppressed bitterness]. I cannot thank you, for your words betray The meaning of your kind solicitude. You eye me as a boy a sallow, good To cut and play the flute on for a day. Yes, better than to linger in the swamp Till autumn choke it with her grey mists damp! [Vehemently.

You must! you shall! To me you must present What God to you so bountifully lent. I speak in song what you in dreams have meant. See yonder bird I innocently slew, Her warbling was Song's book of books for you. O, yield your music as she yielded hers! My life shall be that music set to verse!

And when you know me, when my songs are flown, And my last requiem chanted from the bough,— What then?

[observing her]. What then? Ah well, remember now! [Pointing to the garden.

[gently].

Yes, I remember you can drive a stone.