Lay on the clay-cold body of our bliss;—
This Love of ours, ardent and glad and proud,
Pure of disease’s taint and age’s cloud,
Shall die the young and glorious thing it is!
Falk [in deep pain].
And far from thee—what would be left of life?
Svanhild.
And near me what were left—if Love depart?
Falk.
A home!