Page:The collected works of Henrik Ibsen (Heinemann Volume 3).djvu/234



Thanks, no; the swarthy Heathens wait.— Farewell. [Going.

And does no memory stir, Bidding you ask—?

Of what?

Of her Who would have grieved at the abyss, That parts another day from this.

I guess your meaning; you refer To that young female, whose allure Held me in pleasure's net secure, Till Faith's ablution made me pure. —Yes, and how is it then with her?

Next year I won her for my wife.

That unimportant, I prefer To leave these trivial facts unknown What's weighty I desire alone.

God richly bless'd our common life With joy and sorrow: The child pined

That's unimportant