From far-off lands, at the last, in the end,
Each song-bird homeward his flight doth bend!
I am so happy—though why I scarce know—!
Margit, what say you? I'll quickly go
And take down his harp, that has hung so long
In there on the wall that 'tis rusted quite;
Its golden strings I will polish bright,
And tune them to ring and to sing with his song.
MARGIT. [Absently.]
Do as you will—
SIGNE. [Reproachfully.]
Nay, this in not right.
[Embracing her.
But when Gudmund comes will your heart grow light—
Light, as when I was a child, again.
MARGIT.
So much has changed—ah, so much!—since then—
SIGNE.
Margit, you shall be happy and gay!
Have you not serving-maids many, and thralls?
Costly robes hang in rows on your chamber walls;
How rich you are, none can say.
By day you can ride in the forest deep,
Chasing the hart and the hind;
By night in a lordly bower you can sleep,
On pillows of silk reclined.