“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 night! FALK. [_in anguish_]. 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 with 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 in triumph, by God’s hand, Be borne from out the wreckage safe to land! FALK. O, I divine thee! But—to sever thus! Now, when the portals of the world stand wide,— When the blue spring is bending over us, On the same day that plighted thee my bride! SVANHILD.