Page:The collected works of Henrik Ibsen (Heinemann Volume 3).djvu/108



Yes. You also go?

Not now.

Have been, I daresay?

No.

Priest, you are hard. Through mist and snow I've trudged across the desolate fell, Well knowing that she is of those Who pay like paupers.

May God bless Your skill and your unweariedness! Ease, if you can, her bitter throes.

Bless my goodwill! I tarried not A moment when I heard her state.

You she has summon'd: I'm forgot,— And sick at heart, I wait, I wait.

Come without summons!

Till she calls, I have no place within those walls.