With all their faded æons, seemed to rise
In never-ending line before my eyes.
In you I saw a Svanhild, like the old,
But fashioned to the modern age’s mould.
Sick of its hollow warfare is the world;
Its lying banner it would fain have furled;
But when the world does evil, its offence
Is blotted in the blood of innocence.
Svanhild [with gentle irony].
I think, at any rate, the fumes of tea