Falk.
No,—made strong by truth.
Our heads no penal flood will overflow;
This never-dying memory of our youth
Shall gleam against the cloud-wrack like the bow
Of promise flaming in its colours seven,—
Sign that we are in harmony with heaven.
That gleam your quiet duties shall make bright—
Svanhild.
And speed the poet in his upward flight!
Falk.
The poet, yes; for poets all men are
Who see, thro' all their labours, mean or great,
In pulpit or in schoolroom, church or state,
The Ideal's lone beacon-splendour flame afar.
Yes, upward is my flight; the winged steed
Is saddled; I am strung for noble deed.
And now, farewell!
Svanhild.
Farewell!
Falk [embracing her]. One kiss! Svanhild. The last!
[Tears herself free.
Now I can lose thee gladly till life's past!
