THE COLLECTED POEMS OF HENRIK IBSEN Translated by John ...

108
TO SUSANNAH THORESEN
I dreamt I’d been coffined, committed
To sink in the grave’s embrace,
Dust scattered my last permitted
Earthly abiding place.
The parson consigned the departed,
The hymns had been sung so sweet,
Then off the sad gathering started
And all was left nice and neat.
I happened to spy, then, discreetly,
My one and my only love there,
She, having heard all, returned sweetly
My smile with a childlike air.
I felt, then, the gloom’s regression,
The flood of grand music roll
From her, with that rare possession,
A burgeoning childlike soul.
[TO MISS ESTANCE STEEN
with a copy of “The Feast at Solhaug”]
Each person owning a little bloom,
Held dear in the depths of their heart —
Will send it away to where warming sun
Might give it a friendly start.
But Art’s a world with its seasons, too,
Of blossoms both large and small,
Dependent on light and the gleaming sun
To burst from its calyx shawl.
For me, my little book’s a bloom
Held dear in the depths of my heart;
I’m sending it off where the warming sun
Might give it a friendly start! —
I’m sending it where I can dare to hope
It will find a good home, it too;
It’s finest sun is a spring-like mind,
It’s sure, then, to thrive with you! —
Bergen 29.4.56