Henrik Johan Ibsen
Henrik Ibsen was a major 19th-century Norwegian playwright, theatre director, and poet. He is often referred to as "the father of prose drama" and is one of the founders of Modernism in the theatre. His major works include Brand, Peer Gynt, An Enemy of the People, Emperor and Galilean, A Doll's House, Hedda Gabler, Ghosts, The Wild Duck, Rosmersholm, and The Master Builder.
Several of his plays were considered scandalous to many of his era, when European theater was required to model strict mores of family life and propriety. Ibsen's work examined the realities that lay behind many façades, revealing much that was disquieting to many contemporaries. It utilized a ... more »
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Henrik Johan Ibsen Poems
HER griefs were the hours When my struggle was sore,-- Her joys were the powers That the climber upbore.
IN summer dusk the valley lies With far-flung shadow veil; A cloud-sea laps the precipice
TO skies that were brighter Turned he his prows; To gods that were lighter Made he his vows.
In the Picture Gallery
With palette laden She sat, as I passed her, A dainty maiden Before an Old Master.
Wildflowers And Hot-House Plants
'GOOD Heavens, man, what a freak of taste! What blindness to form and feature! The girl's no beauty, and might be placed
A Brother In Need
NOW, rallying once if ne'er again, With flag at half-mast flown, A people in dire need and strain Mans Tyra's bastion. ...
THE last, late guest To the gate we followed; Goodbye -- and the rest The night-wind swallowed.
Beetling rock, with roar and smoke Break before my hammer-stroke! Deeper I must thrust and lower Till I hear the ring of ore.
To The Survivors
NOW they sing the hero loud; -- But they sing him in his shroud.
With A Water-Lily
SEE, dear, what thy lover brings; 'Tis the flower with the white wings. Buoyed upon the quiet stream In the spring it lay adream.
Comments about Henrik Johan Ibsen
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
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.