Hvad er det vel vi kalde Poesie?
(Baggrund til Vignetterne)
Hvad er det vel vi kalde Poesie?
En skuffet Drøm, nu det Uendelige!
Det Enkelte, det Heles Harmonie,
Vi jo med dette lille Ord udsige.
Vort Liv, ja jeg og Du, kort alle vi
Er’ Poesie!
Det stolte Fjeld, der over Skyen gaaer,
Hvor Fossen larmer over knuste Graner,
Hvor Gemsejægeren ei Spidsen naaer,
Hvor Tanken svinder og Guds Storhed aner;
Hiin herlige Natur saa høi og fri
Er Poesie!
I Gruben ved det blege Lampeskjær,
Den stille Bjergmand sidder med sin Stræben,
Han tænker trofast paa sin Hjertenskjær,
Og gamle Sange tone ham fra Læben.
Den hele Scene, Hjertets Drømmerie,
Er Poesie!
I Røg og Damp den vilde Kampplads staaer,
Her brænder Byen, hist man stormer Skandsen,
Dødskuglen gjennem Heltehjertet gaaer,
Imens det drømmer stolt om Laurbærkrandsen.
Selv dette røg omhylte Malerie,
Er Poesie!
See Slaveskibet! dybt i Rummet her
De lænkebundne, solgte Brødre sukke;
Nu er det Havblik, tyst – hvad pladsker der?
Et Liig, nu eet – og Bølgerne sig lukke.
Dødskysset da, som gjør den Fangne fri,
Er Poesie!
Naar hun, hvem Hjertet fast sig klynger ved,
Som er din Tanke og din hele Stræben,
Naar hun forstaaer din dybe Kjærlighed,
Og hendes Haandtryk siger meer end Læben,
Hvad da Du føler, fængslet, men dog fri,
Er Poesie!
Hver Barnets Drøm om Jordens Herlighed,
Den Gamles Minder, mens hun dreier Rokken,
Den glemte Qvindes stille Huuslighed,
Der sysler hjemme, tro, med Børneflokken,
Den Vildes Glæde ved et Speils Magie,
Er Poesie!
Naar Vennen Du betroer Din bittre Vee,
Og klynger Dig til ham med trofast Hjerte,
Dit varme Du faaer kun et høfligt De,
Din Tillid selv forvandler sig til Smerte,
Selv det, naar han Dig fornem gaaer forbi,
Er Poesie!
Siberien med Taage, Iis og Snee,
Omslutter ham, der stred for Frihedsfaner,
Alene, i det grændseløse Vee,
Hans Liv henvisner mellem dunkle Graner,
Hans Drøm om Frihed – Ørknens Dyr er' frie – !
Er Poesie!
Der staaer en Klippe i det salte Hav,
Fra Skibet mangen Pilgrim den bestiger,
Man seer et Træ, en Skildvagt og en Grav,
Hvert Blik faaer Liv, men Læben intet siger.
Den dybe Stilhed her, er Melodie,
Som Poesie!
Musikkens Toner, Ungdoms glade Dands,
En Verden i et Frø og i en Stjerne,
Selv Graven med sin visne Blomsterkrands,
Vort Hjertes Higen mod et ukjendt Fjerne,
Mit Liv og hvad jeg fandt deri,
Er Poesie!
Jeg følte mig som Ørnen, stærk og fri,
Min unge Sjæl var gladest blandt de Glade,
Men Hjertets bedste Drøm var nu forbi,
Og Livets Træ staaer uden Blomst og Blade.
Mit Kald som Digter – Hjertets Melodie –
Var Poesie!
What is this thing which we call poetry?
(Background to The Vignettes)
What is this thing which we call poetry?
A downcast dream, and now eternity!
One thing or everything’s pure harmony
This tiny word expresses cogently.
Our life, yes you and me, all those we see
Are poetry!
The mountain proud that o’er the high clouds reigns,
Where falls o’er splintered pines cascade and thunder,
Whose peak the chamois hunter never gains,
Where thoughts subside, God’s greatness sensed in wonder:
The glory of all Nature high and free
Is poetry!
Deep underground, beside his lamp’s pale light,
The quiet miner rests a moment from his labour,
His dear beloved is his faithful thoughts’ delight,
And old songs murmured are his only neighbour.
The scene entire, the heart’s deep reverie
Is poetry!
The battlefield’s a hell of smoke and fears,
The barricades are stormed, the city’s blazing,
The hero’s heart the deadly bullet sears,
While in his mind on laurel wreaths he’s gazing.
Even this painting, smoke-filled though it be,
Is poetry!
See the slave ship! Down in the hold below
The fettered, sold poor brothers sit there sighing;
Now all is still, becalmed – what’s splashing though?
A corpse, one more – the waves then slowly dying.
The kiss of death, that sets the captives free
Is poetry!
When she, to whom your heart clings oh so tight,
Who is your sole thought and your whole endeavour,
When she your deep love understands aright,
Her handshake tells you more than lips could ever –
What you then feel, a captive and yet free,
Is poetry!
Each small child’s dream of earth’s great majesty,
And what the crone while spinning is recalling,
The wife’s unnoticed domesticity,
Who minding children sees as her true calling,
The wild man’s joy at mirrors’ wizardry,
Is poetry!
When he whom you entrust your bitter woe,
And with a faithful heart you warmly cling to,
Responds with cold politeness that’s mere show,
Your very trust transforms itself to sting you,
The fact he passes by, fine as can be,
Is poetry!
Siberia, with thick fog, ice and snow,
Envelops him who fought ’neath freedom’s banner,
Alone in an unending, boundless woe
Midst dark pines his life ends in tragic manner.
His dream of freedom – wasteland beasts are free –!
Is poetry!
A rock stands steadfast in the salty sea,
And pilgrims from the ship climb up this island;
A tree, a sentry and a grave you see,
Each gaze gains life, but lips remain quite silent.
The stillness here is purest melody,
Like poetry!
The sound of music, youth’s dance full of glee,
The world a seed or stars contains within it,
The grave itself with wreaths’ now withered leaves,
Heart’s longing for the unknown it cannot limit,
My life and what it offered me,
Are poetry!
I felt just like an eagle, strong and free,
My young soul joyous with like-minded equals,
My heart’s best dream though was mere fantasy,
The tree of life stands bare and has no sequel.
My call as writer – heart’s pure melody –
Was poetry!
