Page:The collected works of Henrik Ibsen (Heinemann Volume 1).pdf/438

 How heavily the hand of culture weighs Upon that far Celestial domain; Its power is shatter'd, and its wall decays, The last true Mandarin's strangled; hands profane Already are put forth to share the spoil; Soon the Sun's realm will be a legend vain, An idle tale incredible to sense; The world is gray in gray—we've flung the soil On buried Faery,—we have made her mound. But if we have,—then where can Love be found? Alas, Love also is departed hence!

[Lifts his cup.

Well let him go, since so the times decree;— A health to Amor, late of Earth,—in tea!

[He drains his cup; indignant murmurs amongst the company.

A very odd expression! "Dead" indeed!

To say that Love is dead—!

Why, here you see Him sitting, rosy, round and sound, at tea, In all conditions! Here in her sable weed The widow—

Here a couple, true and tried,—

With many ample pledges fortified.