Page:The collected works of Henrik Ibsen (Heinemann Volume 1).pdf/497

 Nor ever Winter shall his snowy shroud Lay on the clay-cold body of our bliss;— This Love of ours, ardent and glad and proud, Pure of disease's taint and age's cloud, Shall die the young and glorious thing it is!

[in deep pain]. And far from thee—what would be left of life? And near me what were left—if Love depart? A home! Where Joy would gasp in mortal strife. [Firmly.

It was not given to me to be your wife. That is the clear conviction of my heart! In courtship's merry pastime I can lead, But not sustain your spirit in its need.

[Nearer and with gathering fire.

Now we have revell'd out a feast of spring; No thought of slumber's sluggard couch come nigh! Let Joy amid delirious song make wing And flock with choirs of cherubim on high. And tho' the vessel of our fate capsize, One plank yet breasts the waters, strong to save;— The fearless swimmer reaches Paradise! Let Joy go down into his watery grave; Our Love shall yet in triumph, by God's hand, Be borne from out the wreckage safe to land!