Page:The collected works of Henrik Ibsen (Heinemann Volume 3).djvu/275



Whole and waking.

Lose the child?

Lose it.

Brand!

I must.

And tear Me all bleeding from the snare? With the rods of sacrifice Scourge me to the death?

I must

Quench the glow of sunny skies, Turn all bright things into dust, Never pluck life's fruitage fair, Never be upborne by song? Ah, so many memories throng!

Nought avails. Lose not thy prayer.

Heed'st thou not thy martyr's meed? Baffled where thou sought'st to waken, Stoned by all, by all forsaken?