Page:The collected works of Henrik Ibsen (Heinemann Volume 1).pdf/496



No, my love's ruin were the wreck of all.

And can you promise me before the Lord That it will last, not drooping like the flower, But smell as sweet as now till life's last hour?

[after a short pause]. It will last long. [with anguish]. "Long!" "Long!"—Poor starveling word! Can "long" give any comfort in Love's need? It is her death-doom, blight upon her seed. "My faith is, Love will never pass away"— That song must cease, and in its stead be heard: "My faith is, that I loved you yesterday!" [As uplifted by inspiration.

No, no, not thus our day of bliss shall wane, Flag drearily to west in clouds and rain;— But at high noontide, when it is most bright, Plunge sudden, like a meteor, into night!

[in anguish].

What would you, Svanhild?

We are of the Spring; No Autumn shall come after, when the bird Of music in thy breast shall not be heard, And long not thither where it first took wing.