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

219
until it vanished in the steep descent.
They looked then at each other for a while
in parting’s afterglow, both grave, not speaking;
then on the mouth of each a quivering smile
like quivering sunshine through the greenwood peeking.
And that smile spread until a world’s begotten
wherein youth’s shining rapture seemed to lie.
The flock of friends, the journeying forgotten
as cloud’s forgotten with its passing by.
They did not look ahead, behind, — unseeing;
they only saw the present’s instant glow.
They did not see the frightened sea birds fleeing
on outstretched wing the sound and fjord below.
Like happy kin they bound, hand clasped in hand,
westward across the moor’s brown spread of heather.
He was so slender, lithe as any wand,
she barely skimmed the ground, light as a feather.
She tore herself away, and off she came
and laughed as swiftly he went chasing after, —
the chase became a flight, the jest a game
until they made a song from words and laughter.
“Agnes, my beautiful butterfly,
I shall make sport of your taking!
I’m weaving a net of finest mesh,
the mesh is the songs I’m making!”
“If I’m a butterfly, tiny and pure
let me drink at the tips of the heather;
and if you’re a lad that’s fond of his fun,
then chase me but take me never!”
“Agnes, my beautiful butterfly,
I’ve finished the mesh that I’m knotting;
your fluttering flight will not serve you at all, —
you’ll be trapped in the web of my plotting!”
“If I’m a butterfly, young and bright,
I’m happy to play at this scampering;
but if you should tangle me up in your web,
don’t damage my wing with your tampering!”
“No, I shall gather you up with such care
and lock you away as heart’s treasure;
and there you can play your whole life long
the game that you’ve learnt with most pleasure!”
“No, if I’m a butterfly gay and free,
the cage, I am sure, would not suit me;