FALK. True. SVANHILD. He smote us hardest. FALK. [_to himself_]. Stole my armour, too. SVANHILD. What blows he struck! FALK. He knew to place them well. SVANHILD. All seemed to go to pieces where they fell. [_Coming nearer to him._ How rich in one another’s wealth before We were, when all had left us in despite, And Thought rose upward like the echoing roar Of breakers in the silence of the night. With exultation then we faced the fray, And confidence that Love is lord of death;— He came with worldly cunning, stole our faith, Sowed doubt,—and all the glory pass’d away! FALK [_with wild vehemence_]. Tear, tear it from thy memory! All his talk Was true for others, but for us a lie! SVANHILD [_slowly shaking her head_]. The golden grain, hail-stricken on its stalk, Will never more wave wanton to the sky. FALK [_with an outburst of anguish_]. Yes, we two, Svanhild—! SVANHILD. Hence with hopes that snare! If you sow falsehood, you must reap despair. For others true, you say? And do you doubt That each of them, like us, is sure, alike, That he’s the man the lightning will not strike, And no avenging thunder will find out, Whom the 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 [_with anguish_].