Page:The collected works of Henrik Ibsen (Heinemann Volume 3).djvu/39



And there?

A life of summer weather, A dream, a legend of delight. For on this Sabbath morn have we, High on the hills, without a priest, From fear and sorrow been released And consecrated to gaiety.

By whom?

By all the merry crowd. With ringing glasses every cloud Was banish'd that might dash the leaves Too rudely at our cottage eaves. Out of our speech they put to flight Each warning word of stormy showers, And hail'd us, garlanded with flowers, The true-born children of Delight.

[Going.]

Farewell, ye two.

[Starting and looking more closely at him.]

I pray you, hold Something familiar in your face

[Coldly.]

I am a stranger.