blue storm-cloud scudding up the sky
On wings of tempest, never can come nigh?

FALK.
The others split their souls on scattered ends:
Thy single love my being comprehends.
They're hoarse with yelling in life's Babel din:
I in this quiet shelter fold thee in.

SVANHILD.
But if love, notwithstanding, should decay,
--Love being Happiness's single stay--
Could you avert, then, Happiness's fall?

FALK.
No, my love's ruin were the wreck of all.

SVANHILD.
And can you promise me before the Lord
That it will last, not drooping like the flower,
But smell as sweet as now till life's last hour?

FALK [after a short pause].
It will last long.

SVANHILD.
"Long!" "Long!"--Poor starveling word!
Can "long" give any comfort in Love's need?
It is her death-doom, blight upon her seed.
"My faith is, Love will never pass away"--
That song must cease, and in its stead be heard:
"My faith is, that I loved you yesterday!"
[As uplifted by inspiration.
No, no, not thus our day of bliss shall wane,
Flag drearily to west in clouds and rain;--
But at high noontide, when it is most bright,
Plunge sudden, like a meteor, into the night!

FALK.
What would you, Svanhild?

SVANHILD.
We are of the Spring;
No autumn shall come after, when the bird
Of music in thy breast shall not be heard,
And long not thither where it first took wing.
Nor ever Winter shall his snowy shroud
Lay on the clay-cold body of our bliss;--
This Love of ours, ardent and glad and proud,
Pure of disease's taint and age's cloud,
Shall die the young and glorious thing it is!

FALK [in deep pain].
And far from thee--what would be left of life?

SVANHILD.
And near me what were left--if Love depart?

FALK.
A home?

SVANHILD.
Where Joy would gasp in mortal strife.
[Firmly.
It was not given to me to be your wife.
That is the clear conviction of my heart!
In courtship's merry pastime I can lead,
But not sustain your spirit in its need.
[Nearer and gathering fire.
Now we have revell'd out a feast of spring;
No thought of slumber's sluggard couch come nigh!
Let Joy amid delirious song make wing
And flock with choirs of cherubim on high.
And tho' the vessel of our fate capsize,
One plank yet breasts the waters, strong to save;--
The fearless swimmer reaches Paradise!
Let Joy go down into his watery grave;
Our Love shall yet triumph, by God's hand,
Be