A beauteous but unending sameness, is
For woman only, but for manly souls,
And most for thine, it's quiet, weary dullness.
Thou thrivest best where storms are raging round.
On foaming pacers o'er the heaving sea,
And on thy tossing plank, come life or death,
Thou mayest fight with peril for thine honor.
The beauteous desert thou dost paint, would be
A grave for high achievements, not yet born;
And like thy shield, with rust would be dissolved,
Thine independent mind. It shall not be!
I will not steal away my Fridthjof's name
From poet's storied song; I will not quench
My hero's glory in its morning dawn.
Be wise, my Fridthjof; let us yield unto
The haughty norn; let us rescue yet
Our cherished honor from this wreck of life;
Our happiness we cannot save, 'tis gone,
And separate we must!

Fridthjof.

And wherefore must?
Because a sleepless night disturbed thy mind?

Ingeborg.

Because my honor must be saved, and thine.

Fridthjof.