Pigen paa Anatomikammeret
– – Jo det er Hende!
O lys hid!
Og slip ei Kniven end
paaglid
i denne Armes Hjerte!
O, der er rædsom
Vittighed
i Lampens Blik, som
stirrer ned
paa denne døde Smerte.
Saa kold, dengang den
aanded, saae
den stolte Verden jo
derpaa?
Og frække Øine skar
det Slør igjennem
tidligt, som
den stakkels Piges
Fattigdom
af gyldne Drømme bar.
Som Blomst i Isen
frossen ind
jeg seer et Træk paa
denne Kind,
som vel jeg bør at kjende.
Thi Fryden i min
Barndomsleeg,
før altfor høit min
Skulder steeg,
– o var den ikke Hende.
Tversover boed’ hun
for os,
i Armod født, som i
sit Mos
paa Taget Stedmorsblommen.
Fornemme Folk kun
fatted’ svært,
at Blod saa fagert og
saa skjært
af Fattigfolk var kommen.
Ak, mangt sligt Aasyn
dog jeg saae
som Maanedsrosens
Pragt forgaae,
som Sommerfuglestøvet!
Dem Skjebnens Haand
for haardt vel tog,
og Syndens Spor dem
overjog
som Sneglens Sliim paa Løvet.
The girl in the dissection room
– – Yes, it is her!
Oh light here, quick!
Let not the knife yet
even flick
across this poor girl’s heart!
Oh, what cruel irony
does glow
in this lamp’s gaze
that stares down so
on dead pain set apart.
So cold, yet when it
breathed did not
the proud world gaze
at it a lot?
And bold eyes soon sliced through
the veil of golden
dreams that she
the poor girl against
poverty
wore when as child she grew.
Like flower frozen in
the ice
this cheek bears
traits that in a trice
should be well-known to me.
For childhood games
that brought me joy,
before I was no
longer boy,
– Oh surely it was she.
She lived just
opposite from us,
of humble birth, like
in its moss
the roof’s heartsease could thrive.
Fine folk could
hardly contemplate
that blood so fair
and delicate
from paupers could derive.
Ah, many a face as
this saw I
like monthly rose’s
splendour die,
as butterfly-dust brief!
Fate’s hand too
firmly must have grasped,
and sin’s trace to
such lives have clasped
like snail’s slime on the leaf.
No comments:
Post a Comment