Page:The collected works of Henrik Ibsen (Heinemann Volume 3).djvu/117

 Over Life's precipices cast, Each to its mouldering branches clings, And, if they crumble, clutches fast With tooth and nail to straws and bast

And, while they helpless, hopeless fall, You cry: Give nothing or give all!

He who would conquer still must fight, Rise, fallen to the highest height.

[A brief silence: his voice changes.]

And yet, when with that stern demand Before some living soul I stand, I seem like one that floats afar Storm-shatter'd on a broken spar. With solitary anguish wrung I've bitten this chastising tongue, And thirsted, as I aim'd the blow, To clasp the bosom of my foe. Go, Agnes, watch the sleeping boy. And sing him into dreams of joy. An infant's soul is like the sleep Of still clear tarns in summer-light. A mother over it may sweep And hover, like the bird, whose flight Is mirror'd in the deepest deep.

What does it mean, Brand? Wheresoe'er You aim your thought-shafts—they fly there!

Oh, nothing. Softly watch the child.