For the heavenly song familiar grew:
Gudmund oft sang it to me and you—
Ofttimes has Gudmund carolled it,
And all he e'er sang in my heart is writ.
Margit.
And you think that it may be—?
Signë.
I know it! I know it! You soon shall see!
[Laughing.
From far-off lands, at the last, in the end,
Each song-bird homewards his flight doth bend!
I am so happy—though why I scarce know—!
Margit, what say you? I'll quickly go
And take down his harp, that has hung so long
In there on the wall that 'tis rusted quite;
Its golden strings I will polish bright,
And tune them to ring and to sing with his song.
Margit.
[Absently.]
Do as you will—
Signë.
[Reproachfully.]
[Embracing her.
But when Gudmund comes will your heart grow light—
Light, as when I was a child, again.
