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

262
she is like a vision gliding,
never biding,
on some secret, mystic trail.
Sea-elves sporting
swirl cavorting
in the bow-spray at their game;
fairies hurry
in the scurry;
but within the pennant’s flurry
lurks “Agnete’s” name.
Look — another apparition,
such a dancer, wild and fearless!
Grace, caprice in coalition,
talent peerless.
Half familiar, half far distant,
half a mermaid, half meek infant
fell-exploring,
“Dina” rides upon her mooring.
As though blindly,
guided by the zephyr kindly,
as though dreaming
cradled on the tide’s soft streaming, —
the felucca!
Every dip, her every rising
tells Provençe gave vital succour;
deep sighs quiver,
love’s faint zither
from the deck soul’s Spring prevising,
wafted hither;
songs descending
on the mute throng there attending,
as beside the strand’s green pillows
“Iolanthe” charms the billows.
Who’d not wonder
at the vessels
following in sun her courses,
to a fair wind making foam?
“Ragnhild” wrestles
heeling under
as the sea’s dark hidden forces
lure her home; —
lotus-like the current riding
see the fair “Ophelia” cutter
seem to flutter,
veering, gliding —
frigates after,
an armada
seeking harbour
to the land’s applause and laughter. —