Page:The collected works of Henrik Ibsen (Heinemann Volume 1).pdf/437

 So, as you know, an ancient proverb tells, That something ever passes from the tea Of the bouquet that lodges in its cells, If it be carried hither over sea. It must across the desert and the hills,— Pay toll to Cossack and to Russian tills;— It gets their stamp and licence, that's enough, We buy it as the true and genuine stuff. But has not Love the self-same path to fare? Across Life's desert? How the world would rave And shriek if you or I should boldly bear Our Love by way of Freedom's ocean wave! "Good heavens, his moral savour's passed away, "And quite dispersed Legality's bouquet!"—

[rising].

Yes, happily,—in every moral land Such wares continue to be contraband!

Yes, to pass current here, Love must have cross'd The great Siberian waste of regulations, Fann'd by no breath of ocean to its cost; It must produce official attestations From friends and kindred, devils of relations, From church curators, organist and clerk, And other fine folks—over and above The primal licence which God gave to Love.— And then the last great point of likeness;—mark