Brand.
But I am to a burial bound.
Agnes.
A burial.
Einar.
You? Why, who is dead?
Brand.
The God who was <g>your</g> God, you said.
Agnes.
[Shrinking back.]
Come, Einar!
Einar.
Brand!
Brand.
With cerements wound
The God of each mechanic slave,
Of each dull drudger, shall be laid
By broad day in his open grave.
End of the matter must be made;
And high time is it you should know
He ail'd a thousand years ago.
Einar.
Brand, you are ill!
Brand.
No, sound and fresh
As juniper and mountain-pine!
It is our age whose pining flesh
Craves burial at these hands of mine.
Ye will but laugh and love and play,
A little doctrine take on trust,
And all the bitter burden thrust
