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

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her fingers screened the light she held before her,
he even heard the way she breathed as well.
Then suddenly she raised a stiff, straight arm, —
and cried out in a strangled voice but roundly:
‘This is for having done my life such harm!’ — —
At which she boxed the corpse’s ear right soundly.
“It seemed a long day’s work had reached conclusion
with that one slap across the dead man’s cheek.
She turned and left, — the candle’s light fell bleak
upon a face allowing no confusion. —
Resembling two things feared above all other
before he had the words to phrase their dread:
the eagle on the store-barn’s lintel spread,
but most of all resembling his own mother.
“He woke as strong as steel, the third day’s dawning.
His Dad was dead, though all the rest a dream.
He kept his counsel, maids worked as a team,
sewing at gowns of black — to trim for mourning.
And before noon, the local made-to-measure;
he’d come to rig the boy out, such a swell!
Then came the ride to town. All went off well.
They mourned, drank coffee, had a day of leisure.
“The coffin came one afternoon with sheathing
of silver on its lid, as I recall.
From town, a new-stitched, folded linen pall,
and local-purchased green-stuff for the wreathing.
And then the pine-twigs’ turn. When all was ended,
the widow’s house reeked with so strong a breath
from flowers, sprigs, some greenery, all blended,
the lad henceforth thought summer smelt of death.
“The burial day at last. In past the reef
folk rowed, boat after boat, for the occasion.
Inside the mourning house, half-stifled grief;
the parlour, with black bier in occupation.
Procession formed, the priest made his addresses
on suffering, death, grave’s peace — but used his craft
most to depict the widow’s sore distresses,
So that the women wept — the boy, though, laughed.
“He laughed for days — but laughed in isolation.
But once he laughed to make the heavens shriek.
The day he lighted on some information
in city papers for the previous week.
And there it was in print, black border, cross,
the January issue number seven:
‘My husband, much beloved, to my great loss
departed, on the twenty-fourth, for Heaven.’