Henrik Ibsen: Gone

THE last, late guest
To the gate we followed;
Goodbye—and the rest
The night-wind swallowed.

House, garden, street,
Lay tenfold gloomy,
Where accents sweet
Had made music to me.

It was but a feast
With the dark coming on;
She was but a guest—
And now, she is gone.


Originally published in 1864. Translation by Fydell Edmund Garrett (1865–1907).

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