All into a wreath for thee.
'Tis his doing! Canst thou see?
[Listens, starts, and shakes her head.]
Oh, I dream! Not bar and wall
Only from my love divide me.
When the purging fire hath tried me
In its anguish, then alone
Shall the parting barriers fall
And the mighty bolts be batter'd,
And the vaulted dungeons shatter'd,
And the prison hinges groan!
Much, oh, much is to be done
Ere we parted twain be one.
I with silent, toiling hands
Still will labour on, to fill
The abyss of his commands;
I shall nerve me, I shall will.
But it is the Feast this eve—
Last year's how unlike! And wait
We will honour it in state.
I will fetch my treasures forth,
Whereof the uncounted worth
Best a mother can conceive,
To whose spirit they express
All her life-lost happiness.
[She kneels down by the cupboard, and takes
various things out of a drawer. At the
same moment, Brand opens the door, and
is about to speak, when he observes her
occupation, checks himself and remains
standing. Agnes does not see him.
Brand.
[Softly.]
Haunting still the mortal mound,
Playing in Death's garden-ground.
