Page:The collected works of Henrik Ibsen (Heinemann Volume 3).djvu/150

 The low swallow-song of grief; Think of me, who have no charm For the tedious pain of life; Me, who, far from war's alarm, Lack the fiery joys of strife: Think, oh think, of me, who share not Noble work, but brood and wait; Me, who to remember dare not, And who never can forget!

Thou no noble life-work! Thou! Never was it great as now. Listen, Agnes; thou shalt know What to me our loss has brought. Oftentimes my light is low. Dim my reason, dull my thought, And there seems a kind of gladness In immeasurable sadness. Agnes—in such hours I see God, as at no other, near; Oh, so near, it seems to me I could speak, and He would hear. Like a lost child then I long To be folded to his breast, And be gather'd by His strong Tender Father-arms to rest!

Brand, oh see Him so alway! To thy supplication near— God of love and not of fear!

No; I may not bar his way, Nor run counter to my Call;