And who will wait for you, high lady
Who will wait for you?
Rich in your high feather and black dress
And rich in your taste for death?

Will history wait for you
Whose life was gone before its birth?
For you whose mansions and portraits
Stare from a past which will not waken?

Who will love you, Hedda Gabler,
Amid your pianos and tables and revolvers;
Amid ancient ceremony, the frenzy of Dionysiac
Memory, a world of high courage, reverie and passion.
What man now can ever hold your hand?

And who will weep for you, high lady
When the dust has buried your world;
And whatever breathes in bourgeois life
Is stained with dullness, bereft of your beauty;
Your heroes are gone:
No vine-leaved head to kiss your red red mouth.