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

52
It knows that the lad isn’t really
Enthralled by the blooms’ bright hue,
It sees him pick fruit, — but it’s merely
Sheer need that compels him to.
It has often enough seen him starting
His search there at break of day;
But never observed him departing
Blue-lipped on his homeward way.
It knows what he’s picked he’ll unfailing
Take back to the town below,
And bring his poor sister, who’s ailing,
A cookie to solace her woe!
TO A TROUBADOUR
Brynjolf Bjarme
Troubadour, with power divine
Though the strings play softly!
Garb in song that soul of thine,
Let it soar prolonged and lofty; —
Sing, my noble troubadour,
Like the bird in God’s outdoor, —
Thy tones shall ne’er fade or alter
Like the spring-tide winds that falter!
Whisper but to Nature’ breast
What thy heart is hoarding, —
I, thine echo, shall attest
Silently applauding,
Shall thy soul’s still-vibrant spell
Bear with me from fell to fell,
In thy silence fantasising
Over thy sweet melodising!
Henr. Ibsen
Ibsen sent a copy of the poem to Clara Ebbell in Grimstad. She had appeared in troubadour
costume at two parties held in February 1851.
THE TEAR
Denied its tears life came to be,
For all its moisture, nonetheless
Too dry to be endured;
The wound from bitter memory
Can by the tear’s fresh dew be cured,
And in its diamond-lucid round