Nay, Svanhild, do not jest: behind your scoff Tears glitter,—O, I see them plain enough. And I see more: when you to dust are fray’d, And kneaded to a formless lump of clay, Each bungling dilettante’s scalpel-blade On you his dull devices shall display. The world usurps the creature of God’s hand And sets its image in the place of His, Transforms, enlarges that part, lightens this; And when upon the pedestal you stand Complete, cries out in triumph: “_Now_ she is At last what woman ought to be: Behold, How plastically calm, how marble-cold! Bathed in the lamplight’s soft irradiation, How well in keeping with the decoration!” [_Passionately seizing her hand._ But if you are to die, live first! Come forth With me into the glory of God’s earth! Soon, soon the gilded cage will claim its prize. The Lady thrives there, but the Woman dies, And I love nothing but the Woman in you. There, if they will, let others woo and win you, But here, my spring of life began to shoot, Here my Song-tree put forth its firstling fruit; Here I found wings and flight:—Svanhild, I know it, Only be mine,—here I shall grow a poet! SVANHILD [_in gentle reproof, withdrawing her hand_]. O, why have you betrayed yourself? How sweet It was when we as friends could freely meet! You should have kept your counsel. Can we stake Our bliss upon a word that we may break? Now you have spoken, all is over. FALK. No! I’ve pointed to the goal,—now leap with me, My high-souled Svanhild—if you dare, and show That you have heart and courage to be free. SVANHILD. Be free? FALK. Yes, free, for freedom’s all-in-all Is absolutely to fulfil our Call. And you by heaven were destined, I know well, To be my bulwark against beauty’s spell. I, like my falcon namesake, have to swing Against the wind, if I would reach the sky! You are the breeze I must be breasted by, You, only you, put vigour in my wing: Be mine, be mine, until the world shall take you, When leaves are falling, then our paths shall part Sing unto me the treasures of your heart, And for each song another song I’ll make you; So may you pass into the lamplit glow Of age, as forests fade without a throe. SVANHILD [_with suppressed bitterness_]. I cannot thank you, for your words betray The meaning of your kind solicitude. You eye me as a boy a sallow, good To cut and play the flute on for a day.