Page:The collected works of Henrik Ibsen (Heinemann Volume 1).pdf/494



You are so pale.

And you so silent.

True.

He smote us hardest.

[to himself]. Stole my armour, too. What blows he struck! He knew to place them well. All seemed to go to pieces where they fell. [Coming nearer to him.

How rich in one another's wealth before We were, when all had left us in despite, And Thought rose upward like the echoing roar Of breakers in the silence of the night. With exultation then we faced the fray, And confidence that Love is lord of death;— He came with worldly cunning, stole our faith, Sowed doubt,—and all the glory pass'd away!