Page:The collected works of Henrik Ibsen (Heinemann Volume 3).djvu/187

 All into a wreath for thee. 'Tis his doing! Canst thou see?

[Listens, starts, and shakes her head.]

Oh, I dream! Not bar and wall Only from my love divide me. When the purging fire hath tried me In its anguish, then alone Shall the parting barriers fall And the mighty bolts be batter'd, And the vaulted dungeons shatter'd, And the prison hinges groan! Much, oh, much is to be done Ere we parted twain be one. I with silent, toiling hands Still will labour on, to fill The abyss of his commands; I shall nerve me, I shall will. But it is the Feast this eve— Last year's how unlike! And wait We will honour it in state. I will fetch my treasures forth, Whereof the uncounted worth Best a mother can conceive, To whose spirit they express All her life-lost happiness.

[''She kneels down by the cupboard, and takes various things out of a drawer. At the same moment, opens the door, and is about to speak, when he observes her occupation, checks himself and remains standing. does not see him.''

[Softly.]

Haunting still the mortal mound, Playing in Death's garden-ground.