HER griefs were the hours <br />When my struggle was sore,-- <br />Her joys were the powers <br />That the climber upbore. <br /> <br />Her home is the boundless <br />Free ocean that seems <br />To rock, calm and soundless, <br />My galleon of dreams. <br /> <br />Half hers are the glancing <br />Creations that throng <br />With pageant and dancing <br />The ways of my song. <br /> <br />My fires when they dwindle <br />Are lit from her brand; <br />Men see them rekindle <br />Nor guess by whose hand. <br /> <br />Of thanks to requite her <br />No least thought is hers,-- <br />And therefore I write her, <br />Once, thanks in a verse.<br /><br />Henrik Johan Ibsen<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/thanks-69/
