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Flooding the night with peace,
Speak of the dawn of the morrow
For the day-wearied man—
Then over my spirit low-flying
Sweep the downy birds of longing,
Keen in pursuit of the spring;
Failing to find it, they die.
Then feel I no longer hatred,
Although to death I was wounded,
Silently shines the starlight
Down on my strenuous life.
Vikar then in my mind’s eye rises,
Just as he stood there of yore;
Into his great blue eyes
Once more I sit and gaze.
“Sitting there into hers I gaze
Whom once on the ice I rescued,
Blue were they also, like Vikar’s,
Therefore they draw me in thought.
And in such hours I may say,
Peace is well worth the winning;
All of my hopes and longings now
Will I stake on a single throw.
“Iamtlanders all, now hear me well,
Since I have come to you hither:—
Are you as weary as Arnljot Gelline
Of all this treacherous warfare;
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