To Aasmund Olafsen Vinje

(SUNG AT HIS WIFE'S GRAVE)     (See Note 48)     Your house to guests has shelter lent,     While you with pen were seated.     In silent quest they came and went,     You saw them not, nor greeted.      But when now they      Were gone away,     Your babe without a mother lay,     And you had lost your helpmate.     The home you built but yesterday     In death to-day is sinking,     And you stand sick and worn and gray     On ruins of your thinking.      Your way lay bare      Since child you were,     The shelter that you first could share     Was this that now is shattered.     But know, the guests that to you came     In sorrow's waste will meet you;     Though shy you shrink, they still will claim     The right with love to treat you.      For where you go      To you they show     The world in radiant light aglow     Of great and wondrous visions.     What once you saw, now passing o'er,     Will but be made the clearer;     It is the far eternal shore,     That on your way draws nearer.      Your poet-sight      Will see in light     All that the clouds have wrapped in night; -     Great doubts will find an answer.     And later when you leave again     The waste of woe thought-pregnant,     Whom you have met shall teach us then.     Your pen in power regnant.      From sorrow's weal      With purer zeal,     Inspiring light, and pain's appeal     Shall shine your wondrous visions.