Thou knowest well; it fondly greeteth thee
From regions dear; it is the image of
That virgin pale in Balder’s holy grove. 
Thou must not drive it thence away, although
It looketh sorrowful, but whisper kind
Into its ear a friendly word; the winds
Of night on faithful wings will bear it me;
One comfort yet, I have none else beside. 
For me there’s naught to dissipate my grief;
In all surrounding me it hath a tongue;
The holy temple vaults speak but of thee: 
The temple’s God, which should all threatening seem,
Thy likeness takes when shines the streaming moon. 
Behold the sea—­there swam thy keel through foam
To her who on the strand awaited thee;
Behold the woods—­there stand so many stems
With Ing’borg’s runes engraven in the bark;
Now grows the bark and wears away my name,
And that betokens death, the sagas say. 
I ask the day when last it saw thy form,
I ask the night, but both are silent still: 
And e’en the sea which bears thee, gives reply
But with a solemn sigh along the shore. 
With evening’s ruddy glow I’ll send to thee
A greeting, when it sinks into thy waves. 
And heaven’s long ship, the fleeting cloud, shall take
On board the wail of the abandoned one. 
So shall I sit within my virgin bower,
In mourning clad, of all life’s joy bereft,
And broken lilies sew into the cloth,
Until the Spring its cloth doth weave, and sew
It full of better lilies on my grave. 
And when I sadly take the harp to sing
Unending sorrow in profoundest tones,
Then burst the burning tears as now—­

   Fridthjof.

Thou conquerest, Bele’s daughter, weep no more! 
Forgive my wrath, it was alone my sorrow
Which for a moment took a wrathful dress, —
A wrathful dress it cannot long endure. 
Thou art my kindest norn, my Ingeborg. 
A noble mind best teaches what is noble. 
Necessity’s real wisdom cannot have
A fairer, better advocate than thou,
Thou beauteous vala with the rosy lips! 
I yield indeed unto necessity;
I part with thee but part not with my hope;
I’ll take it with me over western waves,
I’ll take it with me to the gates of death. 
The nearest spring-day sees me here again: 
King Helge, so I hope, shall see me too. 
Then from my promise freed, his bidding done,
The calumny against me, too, atoned,
Then I’ll request thee,—­nay but I’ll demand
In open council and with naked swords,
And not of Helge but of Northland’s sons. 
Who only can dispose a princess’ hand;
I have a word for him who dare refuse. 
Farewell till then; be true, forget me not,
And take in memory of our childhood’s love,
My arm-ring here, a beauteous Volund-work,
With heaven’s wonders graven in the gold;
The best of wonders is a faithful heart. 
How well it suits thine arm so snowy-white—­
A glow-worm coiled around the lily’s stem! 
Farewell, my bride, my loved one, fare thee well. 
Ere many moons our mournful lot will change.