Henrik Johan Ibsen poems

Henrik Johan Ibsen(20 March 1828 - 23 May 1906 / Skien)

In the Picture Gallery

- by Henrik Johan Ibsen 51

With palette laden
She sat, as I passed her,
A dainty maiden
Before an Old Master.

What mountain-top is
She bent upon? Ah,
She neatly copies
Murillo's Madonna.

But rapt and brimming
The eyes' full chalice says
The heart builds dreaming
Its fairy-palaces.

* * *

The eighteenth year rolled
By, ere returning,
I greeted the dear old
Scenes with yearning.

With palette laden
She sat, as I passed her,
A faded maiden
Before an Old Master.

But what is she doing?
The same thing still--lo,
Hotly pursuing
That very Murillo!

Her wrist never falters;
It keeps her, that poor wrist,
With panels for altars
And daubs for the tourist.

And so she has painted
Through years unbrightened,
Till hopes have fainted
And hair has whitened.

But rapt and brimming
The eyes' full chalice says
The heart builds dreaming
Its fairy-palaces.

Thanks

- by Henrik Johan Ibsen 47

HER griefs were the hours
When my struggle was sore,--
Her joys were the powers
That the climber upbore.

Her home is the boundless
Free ocean that seems
To rock, calm and soundless,
My galleon of dreams.

Half hers are the glancing
Creations that throng
With pageant and dancing
The ways of my song.

My fires when they dwindle
Are lit from her brand;
Men see them rekindle
Nor guess by whose hand.

Of thanks to requite her
No least thought is hers,--
And therefore I write her,
Once, thanks in a verse.