Page:The collected works of Henrik Ibsen (Heinemann Volume 3).djvu/150

The low swallow-song of grief;
Think of me, who have no charm
For the tedious pain of life;
Me, who, far from war's alarm,
Lack the fiery joys of strife:
Think, oh think, of me, who share not
Noble work, but brood and wait;
Me, who to remember dare not,
And who never can forget!

Brand.

Thou no noble life-work! Thou!
Never was it great as now.
Listen, Agnes; thou shalt know
What to me our loss has brought.
Oftentimes my light is low.
Dim my reason, dull my thought,
And there seems a kind of gladness
In immeasurable sadness.
Agnes—in such hours I see
God, as at no other, near;
Oh, so near, it seems to me
I could speak, and He would hear.
Like a lost child then I long
To be folded to his breast,
And be gather'd by His strong
Tender Father-arms to rest!

Agnes.

Brand, oh see Him so alway!
To thy supplication near—
God of love and not of fear!

Brand.

No; I may not bar his way,
Nor run counter to my Call;