And no avenging thunder will find out,
Whom the blue storm-cloud, scudding up the sky
On wings of tempest, never can come nigh?
Falk.
The others split their souls on scattered ends:
Thy single love my being comprehends.
They’re hoarse with yelling in life’s Babel din:
I in this quiet shelter fold thee in.
Svanhild.
But if love, notwithstanding, should decay,