Page:The collected works of Henrik Ibsen (Heinemann Volume 3).djvu/154

 All too vast this realm of thine, Too gigantic to be mine. Thou, thy word, thy work, thy goal, Will austere, and steadfast soul, Overhead the beetling height, And the barrier fjord below, Grief and memory, toil and night, All vast,—were the Church but so!

[Starting.]

What! the Church? Again that thought? Is it bred an instinct blind In the air?

[Shaking her head sadly.]

Oh ask me not To find reasons for my thought. Instinct steals upon the sense Like a perfume,—to and fro, Blowing whither? Blowing whence? I perceive it, that is all And, unknowing, yet I know That for me it is too small.

Truth may be from dreams divined. In a hundred hearts I find Self-begotten this one word; Even in hers, whose frantic call From the mountain-side I heard: "It is ugly, for 'tis small!" So she said; and like the rest Left her meaning half-express d. Then of women came a score,