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

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one or another from the pallid crowd
and doled out corn and bread in scant donations.
For all the rush, he still found time meanwhile
for jokes and off-hand sallies with each suitor;
he looked about with a complacent smile,
he laughed with dull, blue eyes the shade of pewter;
his shining cheeks shone, pleasantly distended,
he talked to all as comrades, valued so,
had handshakes, nods for some, and condescended
to all the young — while keeping up the flow.
“Here, Nils — here’s corn and cash to get your hand on;
go home, keep dearth and devil from your door;
don’t waste it, my good chap, and do abandon
the penny nips of brandy, what is more!
Here, Aslak, this is yours; — be off with you,
tuck in, but feed the ones who’ve waited ages, —
but, Kari dear, — do burn his hymn-book, do — !
I mean the one with two and fifty pages.”
And so forth, without pause. Bread, morals, grain,
well-meant advice, an endless stream of chaffing;
a man run mad, it seemed, in golden chain,
who clutched his belly, fit to burst for laughing.
But from that pallid group came no reaction,
a brief, pinched smile was all they could display;
each, be it large or small, took up his fraction,
and then, without a ‘thank you’, slipped away.
It was as though their plight had seared the soul;
as though their spirit could survive no longer;
as though despair’s lead weight had proved the stronger,
had clogged their heels and taken heavy toll.
It was as though life were a punishment,
whose cruel lesson was to teach endurance;
as though each bargain struck failed of assurance,
each effort vain, and fruitless all dissent.
Brand stood there looking down on them, and saw
his friend, girl, guide with nag, all joining forces;
the emptied pack being loaded on once more;
the sharing of the food-bag’s last resources.
And next, their purses — coin on coin they dole
and those around them stare at the profusion,
snatch what is given, leave in some confusion, —
the man upon the steps nigh lost for role.