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Best Famous Henrik Ibsen Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Henrik Ibsen poems. This is a select list of the best famous Henrik Ibsen poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Henrik Ibsen poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of Henrik Ibsen poems.

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by Henrik Ibsen | |


 SEE, dear, what thy lover brings; 
'Tis the flower with the white wings.
Buoyed upon the quiet stream In the spring it lay adream.
Homelike to bestow this guest, Lodge it, dear one, in thy breast; There its leaves the secret keep Of a wave both still and deep.
Child, beware the tarn-fed stream; Danger, danger, there to dream! Though the sprite pretends to sleep, And above the lilies peep.
Child, thy bosom is the stream; Danger, danger, there to dream! Though above the lilies peep, And the sprite pretends to sleep.

by Henrik Ibsen | |


 "GOOD Heavens, man, what a freak of taste! 
What blindness to form and feature! 
The girl's no beauty, and might be placed 
As a hoydenish kind of creature.
" No doubt it were more in the current tone And the tide today we move in, If I could but choose me to make my own A type of our average woman.
Like winter blossoms they all unfold Their primly maturing glory; Like pot-grown plants in the tepid mould Of a window conservatory.
They sleep by rule and by rule they wake, Each tendril is taught its duties; Were I worldly-wise, yes, my choice I'd make From our stock of average beauties.
For worldly wisdom what do I care? I am sick of its prating mummers; She breathes of the field and the open air, And the fragrance of sixteen summers.

by Henrik Ibsen | |


 TO skies that were brighter 
Turned he his prows; 
To gods that were lighter 
Made he his vows.
The snow-land's mountains Sank in the deep; Sunnier fountains Lulled him to sleep.
He burns his vessels, The smoke flung forth On blue cloud-trestles A bridge to the north.
From the sun-warmed lowland Each night that betides, To the huts of the snow-land A horseman rides.

by Henrik Ibsen | |


 WITH palette laden 
She sat, as I passed her, 
A dainty maiden 
Before an Old Master.
What mountain-top is She bent upon? Ah, She neatly copies Murillo's Madonna.
But rapt and brimming The eyes' full chalice says The heart builds dreaming Its fairy-palaces.
* * * The eighteenth year rolled By, ere returning, I greeted the dear old Scenes with yearning.
With palette laden She sat, as I passed her, A faded maiden Before an Old Master.
But what is she doing? The same thing still--lo, Hotly pursuing That very Murillo! Her wrist never falters; It keeps her, that poor wrist, With panels for altars And daubs for the tourist.
And so she has painted Through years unbrightened, Till hopes have fainted And hair has whitened.
But rapt and brimming The eyes' full chalice says The heart builds dreaming Its fairy-palaces.

by Henrik Ibsen | |


 HER griefs were the hours 
When my struggle was sore,-- 
Her joys were the powers 
That the climber upbore.
Her home is the boundless Free ocean that seems To rock, calm and soundless, My galleon of dreams.
Half hers are the glancing Creations that throng With pageant and dancing The ways of my song.
My fires when they dwindle Are lit from her brand; Men see them rekindle Nor guess by whose hand.
Of thanks to requite her No least thought is hers,-- And therefore I write her, Once, thanks in a verse.

by Henrik Ibsen | |


 NOW they sing the hero loud; -- 
But they sing him in his shroud.
Torch he kindled for his land; On his brow ye set its brand.
Taught by him to wield a glaive; Through his heart the steel ye drave.
Trolls he smote in hard-fought fields; Ye bore him down 'twixt traitor shields.
But the shining spoils he won, These ye treasure as your own.
-- Dim them not, that so the dead Rest appeased his thorn-crowned head.