Page:The collected works of Henrik Ibsen (Heinemann Volume 1).pdf/418



Tut, on that head, I've no account to render; You have God's summer sunshine in its splendour,— What would you with the lamp?

You are grotesque; You utterly forget that summer passes; If I'm to make a figure in my classes At Christmas I must buckle to my desk.

[staring at him].

What, you look forward?

To be sure I do, The examination's amply worth it too.

Ah but—you 'only sit and live'—remember! Drunk with the moment, you demand no more— Not even a modest third-class next December. You've caught the bird of Fortune fair and fleet, You feel as if the world with all its store Were scattered in profusion at your feet.

Those were my words; they must be understood, Of course, cum grano salis—