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

72
She sinks down on the barrow, —
Her sorrows overflow,
The heavy teardrops sprinkle
The petalled blooms below.
Then from the mound a clanging,
A ghost strode forth in mail,
With shield and helm accoutred,
But silent, deathly pale.
“And is it you, King Helge,
Who visit me again?
Who bade you leave the dwelling
Of heroes who were slain?”
“You, Sigrun, bade my leaving
The dwelling of the slain,
Your tears it was that conjured
My coming forth again.
“For when your tears fall heavy
And warm my place of rest,
The wound once more starts bleeding
Within my frozen breast.”
“Ne’ermore then shall my weeping
Rain warm upon this place.
Come, sit you here beside me
And rest in my embrace.”
And so they sat together
In dark of night, that pair;
Since Helge’s death had Sigrun
Ne’er worn so blithe an air.
And then the dead man started
Just as the first cock crowed:
“I must straightway go riding
to Odin’s high abode!”
The next night Sigrun visits
The burial mound — in vain;
The summer night is silent,
He does not come again.
And then her blood stops flowing
And then her eyelids close, —
She stood in Odin’s stronghold
Before the sun arose.