Page:The collected works of Henrik Ibsen (Heinemann Volume 1).pdf/458



O say it once again, in truth's pure tone Beyond the fear of doubt, that thou art mine! O say it, Svanhild, say—

[throwing herself on his neck].

Yes, I am thine!

Thou singing-bird God sent me for my own!

Homeless within my mother's house I dwelt, Lonely in all I thought, in all I felt, A guest unbidden at the feast of mirth,— Accounted nothing—less than nothing—worth. Then you appeared! For the first time I heard My own thought uttered in another's word; To my lame visions you gave wings and feet— You young unmasker of the Obsolete! Half with your caustic keenness you alarmed me, Half with your radiant eloquence you charmed me, As sea-girt forests summon with their spell The sea their flinty beaches still repel. Now I have read the bottom of your soul, Now you have won me, undivided, whole; Dear forest, where my tossing billows beat, My tide's at flood and never will retreat!