We sons of the plains
We sons of the plains all have minds full of dreams,
That turn into songs when they waken,
They rise from the summer-night mists’ tangled seams
Like larks which now skywards have taken.
From yearning burst open one fine April day
As crocus and hyacinth flowering,
Like springtime sun’s smile whose victorious ray
Melts winter’s last ice with its showering.
Then off they set sail o’er the sweet-scented land,
Where spring seeds through dark soil are teeming,
And joyfully greet past the woods’ dark-green band
The streak of the fjord brightly gleaming
And quiver in springtime’s glad whistling and song
That trill now from grove and from garden
And boldly steal joys in advance which ere long
sweet secretive lips might well pardon.
And sink down midst flowers that in may-night’s embrace
on hillside and branch are now breaking,
and whisper their love’s name while dew grows apace,
my sweet only one, unforsaking.
As yet it’s not morning, though neither is night,
one’s thoughts on stray paths mists are taking,
a heart loudly pounds, and in scrub out of sight
the nightingale’s song is still quaking.
Sir Olav’s horse over the elf-bridge it trod,
in midsummer night’s white abiding,
then stumbled his steed with gold shoes finely shod.
–
Sir Olav, where would you be riding?
Where would you be riding ere daybreak is here,
and where were you carried and born, sir?
And whose breast did feed you, and who held you dear,
and who made your coat newly worn, sir?
Oh, magic in summer-night mists’ tangled seams!
Oh, memories magic and tempting!
We sons of the plains all have minds full of dreams,
and yet do not know when they’re breaking.
They lie there and wait for the moment of birth
to turn into songs are they yearning,
as larks in the clover fields’ grass-tufted earth,
ere dawn meadow’s colours is turning.
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