IN THE PICTURE GALLERY

by: Henrik Ibsen

      ITH 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.

'In the Picture Gallery' was originally written in 1859. This English translation by Fydell Edmund Garrett is reprinted from the Westminster Gazette of July 17, 1903.

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