Page:The collected works of Henrik Ibsen (Heinemann Volume 4).djvu/198

 Still southward, southward clove my keel The salt sea-currents through. Where palms were swaying proud and fair, A garland round the ocean-bight, I set my ship afire.

I climbed aboard the desert ship, A ship on four stout legs. It foamed beneath the lashing whip;—- Oh, catch me; I'm a flitting bird;— I'm twittering on a bough!

Anitra, thou'rt the palm-tree's must; That know I now full well! Ay, even the Angora goat-milk cheese Is scarcely half such dainty fare, Anitra, ah, as thou!

[''He hangs the lute over his shoulder, and comes forward.'']

Stillness! Is the fair one listening? Has she heard my little song? Peeps she from behind the curtain, Veil and so forth cast aside?— Hush! A sound as though a cork From a bottle burst amain! Now once more! And yet again! Love-sighs can it be? or songs?— No, it is distinctly snoring.— Dulcet strain! Anitra sleepeth! Nightingale, thy warbling stay! Every sort of woe betide thee, If with gurgling trill thou darest— But, as says the text: Let be! Nightingale, thou art a singer; Ah, even such an one am I. He, like me, ensnares with music Tender, shrinking little hearts