Hans Christian Andersen: 'Phantasistykke i min egen Maneer' (1830)

Phantasistykke i min egen Maneer

 

I Himlen sidde Guds Engle smaa

Rundt om det store Catheder;

De sidde alle med Vinger paa,

Og blæse saa smukt i Trompeter.

Om Aftenen lægges Trompeten bort,

Madonna hun seer det ret gjerne;

Saa spilles der lystigt — ei Laps eller Kort,

Der leges med Maane og Stjerne.

Tidt triller en Stjerne fra Himlen ud,

Sligt kaldes paa Jorden et Stjerneskud.

 

I Himlen er der en smukMusik,

Og Alt har Hjerte og Stemme;

Man kjeder sig aldrig et Øieblik,

Man føler, at her er man hjemme.

Tidt flyver en lille Engle-Trop

Herned til de jordiske Dale,

Og bringer de sovende Smaabørn op

Til Gud i de himmelske Dale.

Tidt tage de ogsaa en stakkels Poet,

At han kan fortælle den Stads han har seet.

 

O, det er en lystig og underlig Tour,

Høit op over Ørn, over Ugle.

Dybt hænger Verden, det gamle Buur,

Med fine brogede Fugle;

Smaa-Englene synge saa pænt i Chor,

Og alle Sphærerne spille.

O Himlen er saa stor, saa stor!

Man føler sig ganske lille,

Den Voxne bliver et Barn igjen:

Som Børn vi komme i Himmelen.

 

A fantasy in my own fashion

 

In Heaven all God’s small angels sit

Grouped round their master’s desk neatly;

Each one with wings in a perfect fit,

They toot on their trumpets so sweetly.

When evening comes trumpets are stowed away,

For that Virgin Mary finds fitting;

Their games start – not cards or indecorous play,

With stars and the moon they go skittling.

A star often rolls out of Heaven’s berth,

A shooting star it is then called on Earth.

 

In Heaven music’s one blissful chord,

With heart and voice everywhere present;

And not for a moment does one feel bored,

The feeling of home is incessant.

Small groups of angels often descend

To visit the earth far below them,

And carrying babes fast asleep ascend,

So God his fine mansions can show them.

They take a poor poet along if he’s keen,

So he can recount the glory he’s seen.

 

Oh, what a fine, strange trip at any age,

High up above owl, above eagle.

Deep down the world hangs, an ancient cage,

With fine-coloured birds oh so regal;

The small angels sing in a glorious choir,

And all the spheres sing together.

How vast, how vast is God’s realm entire!

One feels one’s so small for ever.

The adults become as children again:

For Heaven is open to none but them.