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

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Who’d shriek his throat sore with mere workday bellowing
when he had vision, thoughts that soar indeed?
Who’d sell his life’s work for such grains of sand?
He thought of Einar’s “curate on probation
who’s hardly placed to lead a Reformation;
a voice can’t carry in a rock-bound land”.
Out into daylight then from that condition!
He rose and straightened up, his mind was set;
the Lord was waiting on his actions yet. —
To render mankind whole, that was the mission.
He did not see the folk swarm at his feet;
his vision seized on pathways more inspired;
he saw a progress, song- and flag-attired,
with triumph won from sacrifice, defeat.
With all the force of solitary passion
he yearned to be outside home’s narrow bar;
he glimpsed his way to church, after his fashion,
like sunshine through a door that stands ajar.
Why his concern, that church-goer in the snow, —
the pair whose way to church would be through pleasure, —
the throng that crawled the dale of gloom past measure?
His mission was to cure the wide world’s woe.
His voice was meant to sound for all creation.
As proud as one succeeding in his search,
he strode as if thorn-crowned, in exaltation.
Then he looked up. He stood before the church.
At the church
There’s many a place by the Norwegian shore
where life means hunger until death by drowning,
whole generations slave and reap the crowning
disaster — rock-fall, flood — like sires of yore.
There’s many a parish there would fit indeed
into some personage’s servant-quarters;
there’s many a house of God whose roof has brought us
to bend our backs, not just those bowed by need.
Just such this place was; and the church, which stood,
its tower torn away, storm-mutilated;
the rain had bleached the walls once decorated,
the weather had destroyed the once-carved wood.
The door-surround with snakes and tendrils flanking
could scarce be seen beneath the tar’s thick proof,
the dragons that had once held up the roof
had been replaced by timber props and planking.