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

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stooled beside the altar-flame.
One of them’s hawk-billed of feature,
one’s an ostrich-feathered creature,
god of day one, one of night,
one of everything in sight; —
not one felt life’s urgent call,
felt the call to sin, to stumble,
raise himself despite the fall.
Hence must Egypt lie and crumble
like a crypted corpse that’s nameless
after four millennia’s sameness.
You, dear lady, need no telling
why, besieged and ringed so tight,
I, withdrawn to my snug dwelling,
live by introspection’s light.
Outdoors there’s no consolation,
faith’s flown like a fall migration,
but the inward eye’s perception
sees Hope’s burgeoning inception.
On those caravans, long dead,
I construct our way ahead.
Every age of humankind
climbs an endless spiral stairway;
same tight circle, narrow fairway,
route eternally confined;
will yearns on, undeviating; —
time keeps merely escalating.
Hence our generation’s banding
o’er the Pharaoh’s head — next landing.
Once more kings rate gods in standing,
once more individuals form
a morose and fickle swarm —
discontent that’s still expanding
is the disaffected norm.
Once more pyramid-creation
occupies our generation.
Once more veins must be distended,
blood and tears must be expended,
that the world may contemplate
majesty entombed in state.
Modern caravan, old manner,
with its Hathor, with its Horus,
and, above all, with its chorus
blindly swearing on the banner.
What great works aren’t raised today
by the same triumphal way?
What proof of the folk’s affection!