Poem by the Norwegian 19th century poet Johan Sebastian Welhaven

The poem’s spirit

What e’en in richest language

stays locked with seven seals,

though words cannot express it

the poem yet reveals.

From language’s stern structure

from thought’s constrictedness

a free idea emerges –

the poem’s spirit this.

Within the soul its home was

ere verse was its attire,

and language-ore turned fluid

when heated in its fire.

The word it quite suffuses

like scent that rises up

from deep within the rose bush

in every flower cup.

And though the serried poem

can never hold it pent,

it still is always present

as is rose-petal’s scent.

The old complaint dismiss then

that no art ever can

portray the spark of thought out

of which a poem sprang.

For if it could be fettered

and be in print revealed,

it would within those limits

its life and force then yield.

It would with spirit’s freedom

on word-sounds dearly float;

and has in poem’s rhythms

a passage far too short.

A passage to a new life

within the reader’s breast;

there once more it will waken

in joy or sore oppressed.

And there be moved and nourished

and be just like the fire

that in the poet’s soul lay

ere verse to life aspired.

Thus only can the poem

retain its magic power

and what defies expression

within the word can flower.

Regard the tranquil pleasure

with which the poet’s blessed

when from his songs the spirit

now floats from breast to breast.

And let his fame but skywards

be borne by this day’s wind,

’tis not the true refreshment

that can assuage his mind.

But when his mental image,

though fame or none he knew,

takes root in some pure bosom

and there is born anew –

Oh, bring him then a message

his spirit there is rife,

for then his work is promised

what is eternal life.