Page:The collected works of Henrik Ibsen (Heinemann Volume 4).djvu/273

 In every crevice; We have never twined us Like wreaths round fruitage.

Not in vain your birth, however;— but still and serve as manure.

We are songs; Thou shouldst have sung us!— A thousand times over Hast thou cowed us and smothered us. Down in thy heart's pit We have lain and waited;— We were never called forth. Thy gorge we poison!

Poison thee, thou foolish stave! Had I time for verse and stuff?

[Attempts a short cut.

[Dripping from the branches.]

We are tears Unshed for ever. Ice-spears, sharp-wounding, We could have melted. Now the barb rankles In the shaggy bosom;— The wound is closed over; Our power is ended.

Thanks;—I wept in Rondë-cloisters,— None the less my tail-part smarted!