Henrik Johan 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.
Henrik Johan Ibsen's Other Poems
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
Comments about this poem (Thanks by Henrik Johan Ibsen )
The Road Not Taken
If You Forget Me
Still I Rise
Edgar Allan Poe
I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
William Ernest Henley
- I Will Bathe My Dreams, Kyle Schlicher
- For what is my purpose?, The Princess
- Mother. Mother., beresford mitchell
- In the waiting room, Anna Garland
- THEY CAN NOT KILL THEIR WILL لايقدرون عل.., MOHAMMAD SKATI
- Haiku And Fruit, Kyle Schlicher
- Short Circuited To Ignite, Lawrence S. Pertillar
- waiting for Autumn, Frederick J.B. Moore II
- In Gratitude, Sandra Feldman
- My life, Abekah Emmanuel