Page:The collected works of Henrik Ibsen (Heinemann Volume 3).djvu/152

 Like a vision seems it still: Let me have of tears my fill. Help me so myself to see,— What I am, and ought to be! Brand,—last night, in stillest hush, Open'd he my chamber door, On his cheek a rosy flush, And his little shirt he wore,— Toddled so with childish tread To the couch where I lay lonely, "Mother!" call'd to me, and spread Both his arms, and smiled, but only As if praying: "Make me warm." Yea, I saw!—Oh, my heart bled

Agnes!

Ah, his little form Was a-cold, Brand! Needs it must, Pillow'd in the chilly dust.

That which lies beneath the sod Is the corse; the child's with God.

[Shrinking from him.]

Oh, canst thou without remorse Thus our bleeding anguish tear? What thou sternly call'st the corse— Ah, to me, my child is there! Where is body, there is soul: These apart I cannot keep, Each is unto me the whole;