Page:The collected works of Henrik Ibsen (Heinemann Volume 3).djvu/82



Inwards! In! O word of might, Now I see my way aright. In ourselves is that young Earth, Ripe for the divine new-birth; Will, the fiend, must there be slain, Adam there be born again. Let the world then take its way, Brutal toil or giddy play; But if e'er we meet in fight, If my work it seek to blight, Then, by heaven, I'll smite and slay! Room within the wide world's span, Self completely to fulfil,— That's a valid right of Man, And no more than that I will!

[After pondering awhile in silence.]

To fulfil oneself! And yet, With a heritage of debt?

[Pauses and looks out.]

Who is she, that, stooping deep, Chambers hither up the steep,— Crooked back and craning crop? Now for breath she has to stop, Clutches wildly lest she stumble, And her skinny fingers fumble Fierce for something that she drags In those deep and roomy bags. Skirt, like folds of feather'd skin, Dangling down her shrivelled shin; Hands, a pair of clenched hooks; So the eagle's carcase looks Nail'd against the barn-door top.

[In sudden anguish.]

What chill memories upstart,— O what gusts from childhood dart