Snee-Dronningen
Høit ligger paa Marken den hvide Snee,
Dog kan man Lyset i Hytten see,
Der venter Pigen ved Lampens Skjær
Paa sin Hjertenskjær.
I Møllen er stille; Drivhjulet staar. –
– Snart glatter Svenden sit gule Haar,
Saa hopper han lystigt, hei, een, to, tre!
Over Iis og Snee.
Han synger omkap med den skarpe Vind,
Der rødmer saa smukt hans sunde kind –
– Sneedronningen rider på sorten Sky
Over Mark og By.
“Du er mig saa smuk i Sneelysets Skjær; –
“Jeg kaarer Dig til min Hjertenskjær!
“Kom, følg mig høit paa min svømmende Ø,
“Over Bjerg og Sø!”
– Sneeflokkene falde saa tykt, saa tæt. –
“Jeg fanger Dig vist i mit Blomster-Næt!
“- Hvor Sneedyngen reiser sig høit paa Eng,
“Staaer vor Brudeseng!” –
Ei meer kan man Lyset i Hytten see;
I Ringdands hvirvler den hvide Snee.
– Et Stjerneskud spiller bag Skyen smukt,
Nu er det alt slut.
Klart skinner Solen på Mark og Eng;
Han sover sødt i sin Brudeseng.
– Den Pigelil ængstes; til Møllen hun gaar;
– Men Drivhjulet staaer.
The Snow Queen
Piled high on the field lies the thick white snow,
but from the cabin light’s seen to glow;
the maid waits there in the lamp’s faint light
for her heart’s delight.
The mill is quite silent, no windshaft moves.
The fine young miller his blond hair smoothes,
away he then bounds off, once, twice, thrice
over snow and ice.
He sings at the pace of the wind so keen
that gives his sound cheeks a ruddy sheen.
The snow queen’s riding on clouds of black
over town and track.
‘I find you most handsome in snow’s bright light,
declare you to be my heart’s delight,
come, follow me up on the isle I sail,
over hill and dale!’
The snowflakes come tumbling as thick as thatch.
‘You soon my flower-net will surely catch!
Where piles of thick snow on the meadow spread
stands our wedding bed!’
The light in the cabin’s no longer there;
the swirling ring dance is everywhere,
a shooting star flies like a mighty spark, –
then that too is dark.
On meadow and field rays of sunlight spread;
he lies fast asleep in his wedding bed.
The anxious young girl, she goes to the mill, –
but the windshaft’s still.
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