Holger Drachmann: 'Ad kendte Veje'

AD KENDTE VEJE

 

O hvor hvert Fjed dog er gammeltungt,

       naar Vejen skal trædes tilbage;

       Trittet var let, saa tyveaarsungt,

       da det gik mod de dejlige Dage.

       Liden Fugl paa vor Vej

       havde travlt med at synge

       sin Elskovssang;

       i hver Bøgetræsgynge

       var Legen i Gang, —

       nu synges, nu leges der ej.

       Kun de susende Graner har endnu Røst,

       og det lyder som oprørt Vand;

              det tegner mod Høst.

 

Elskede! ak, den dobbelte Klang,

       som strider i denne Kalden:

       Sangfuglelatter fra korngul Vang

       og hulkende Skovvandes Falden!

       Nu er Sommeren væk

       og kun Høsten tilbage,

       en Middelhøst;

       kun en Afglans af Dage

       med kummerlig Trøst,

       et Billed med falmede Træk.

       Og jeg trykker det blegede Blad til min Mund.

       Der er dobbelt og stridende Lyst

              i Afskedens Stund.

 

Nej, jeg vil ej som den Klagende staa,

       naar Intet dog kan forandres;

       heller ad høstgule Gange gaa,

       naar Stierne dog skulle vandres.

       Der er Kraft i den Luft,

       som fra Granskovens Naale

       min Aande naa’r;

       gennem Høstsolens Straale

       et Farvevæld gaar,

       hver Blomst har forstærket sin Duft.

       Lad kun Vaaren forstumme; her spirer et Frø.

       Jeg har Sange i Hjertet endda;

              de kan aldrig dø.

DOWN WELL-KNOWN PATHS

 

Oh, how each footstep with lead seems hung,

       when the path must be trod till it’s ended;

       Light was each  step, so twenty-years young,

       when it led towards days that were splendid.

       A small bird as we passed

       was so busily singing

       its song of love;

       in each beech there was swinging

       and playing above, —

       songs and games did not last.

       Only pine trees now soughing have voice at all,

       and its sound’s that of water when rough;

              soon autumn will call.

 

Dearest one! ah, the double-edged plea

       that clashes in this strange calling:

       Songbirds’ gay laughter from corn-hued lea

       and woodland streams’ sad-sobbing falling!

       Now the summer is gone

       there’s but  autumn remaining,

       and autumn’s stalled;

       merely day’s image waning

       with solace now palled,

       a picture whose features once shone.

       And I press the wan leaf to my lips with a sigh.

       Double urges still clash when recalled

              at the hour of goodbye.

 

No, as lamenter I’ll not say adieu,

       when change there is no evading;

       rather tread paths of autumnal hue,

       when only such paths lie in waiting.

       There’s a force in the air

       which as pine needles’ resin

       my mind sets on fire;

       and the autumn’s rays dress in

       a rainbow attire,

       each flower has a scent twice as rare.

       Let the spring remain silent; a seed time is nigh.

       All my heart’s songs will never expire:

              they refuse to die.