Alf beneath the snow asleep
Is my very Alf in Heaven!
Brand.
Many a raw wound must be riven
Ere thy deep disease give way.
Agnes.
Yet have patience with me, pray,
Let me follow, not be driven.
Give me thy strong hand and guide me
Oh, and gently, gently chide me!
Thou whose voice in thunder-tones
Vibrates in the hour of strife,
For the soul that still with groans
Fights a fight for very life,
Hast thou no soft, piteous lay,
To beguile its pangs away?
Ne'er a message to uplift,
Point me to the dawn-fired rift?
God, as thou wouldst have me view Him,
Is a monarch on His throne.
How dare I, then, turn unto Him
With my lowly mother's moan?
Brand.
Wouldst thou rather, haply, turn
To the God thou knew'st before?
Agnes.
Never, never, nevermore!
And yet oftentimes I yearn
Towards the daybreak, towards the light,
Towards the sunshine warm and golden.
Oh, the ancient saw is right:
"Lightly lifted, hardly holden"
Page:The collected works of Henrik Ibsen (Heinemann Volume 3).djvu/153
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