Page:The collected works of Henrik Ibsen (Heinemann Volume 1).pdf/444



What you, a lay, profane outsider here!

No matter, still the battle-flag I'll rear! Yes, it is war I mean with nail and tooth Against the Lie with the tenacious root, The lie that you have fostered into fruit, For all its strutting in the guise of truth!

Against these groundless charges I protest, Reserving right of action—

Do be still!

So then it is Love's ever-running rill That tells the widow what she once possess'd,— That very Love that, in the days gone by, Out of her language blotted "moan" and "sigh"! So then it is Love's brimming tide that rolls Along the placid veins of wedded souls,— That very Love that faced the iron sleet, Trampling inane Convention under feet, And scoffing at the impotent discreet! So then it is Love's beauty-kindled flame That keeps the plighted from the taint of time Year after year! Ah yes, the very same That made our young bureaucrat blaze in rhyme!