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

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now lies in linen folds of smooth perfection,
now naked summits nod across the heather,
now wrap themselves in mists that venture forth;
there’s but one post, one stone cairn altogether
to mark the pass hemmed in to south and north.
A soft, still summer morning on the mountain.
Close by the spot upon the moor’s broad breast
where, now reduced to one divided fountain,
the stream seeps from the bog to east and west, —
there a small knot of cheerful friends now settle,
young girls contributing to the array;
inside a trench ling burns beneath the kettle,
and wine is sparkling to the gleam of day.
They must be gentry, those out there together;
for they have guides with them, pack-horses, nags,
and hats adorned with leaves and sticks with flags,
and cloth spread out upon the cushioned heather.
Amid the youngsters there is one sits singing;
it is as though the song were bathed in sun;
a girl’s perched by him like a bird, like one
that on a willow-spray sits bobbing, swinging.
Now jests resound and laughter, loud and hearty;
now joy falls silent, ebbing from its swell;
from words and faces it is plain to see our party
is gathering to take a last farewell.
A man, not really old, stands in the cluster;
— nor young, indeed, though sturdy still and strong; —
he turns towards a pair, the two whose lustre
illuminates their faces in the throng.
He fills a glass and taps to make it sound,
begins his speech with just a hint of laughter:
“Our Lord knew splendidly what He was after
when He had you two meet on my home ground.
You, Agnes, sent from town because not thriving,
advised to come for bracing mountain air,
to drink the sun, the dew and pine-scent there —
and then, out of the blue, his own arriving.
“He’d come, with rucksack full of painter’s gear,
back from a long trip south, at length returning
so healthy and so strong, mind bold and clear,
breast full of countless songs that he’d been learning.
He sought, he said, for beauty on the mountain,
amongst the forest streams, where pine-trees march,
in flight of storm-clouds under heaven’s arch, —
then he met you, — found Beauty’s source and fountain.