Page:The collected works of Henrik Ibsen (Heinemann Volume 3).djvu/51

 Every home; the landslip-fall, And the inlet's fringe of birch, And the ancient moulder'd church, And the river alders, all From my boyhood I recall. But methinks it all has grown Grayer, smaller than I knew; Yon snow-cornice hangs more prone Than of old it used to do, From that scanty heaven encloses Yet another strip of blue, Beetles, looms, immures, imposes— Steals of light a larger due.

[Sits down and gazes into the distance.]

And the fjord too. Crouch'd it then In so drear and deep a den? 'Tis a squall. A square-rigg'd skiff Scuds before it to the land. Southward, shadow'd by the cliff, I descry a wharf, a shed, Then, a farm house, painted red.— 'Tis the farm beside the strand! 'Tis the widow's farm. The home Of my childhood. Thronging come Memories born of memories dead. I, where yonder breakers roll, Grew, a lonely infant-soul. Like a nightmare on my heart Weighs the burden of my birth, Knit to one, who walks apart With her spirit set to earth. All the high emprise that stirr'd In me, now is veil'd and blurr'd. Force and valour from me fail, Heart and soul grow faint and frail As I near my home, I change,