Hans Christian Andersen: 'Jeg drømte jeg var en lille fugl'

Jeg drømte jeg var en lille fugl

 

Jeg drømte, jeg var en lille fugl,

Der fløi over Land og Bølge,

Hvad Hjertet følte, hvad Øiet saae,

Jeg ikke forstod at dølge.

 

Jeg sang hver Tanke dybt i mit Bryst,

Jeg sang mine Sorger og Glæder,

Jeg svang mig over det brusende Hav

Og alle de fremmede Steder.

 

En Morgen sad jeg paa Træets Green,

Og qviddrede glad mine Sange!

Rundt om i Græsset de Blomster stod’

De vare saa smukke, saa mange.

 

Men een var i Duft og i Farveskjær

Den smukkeste, maatte man sande,

Paa hende jeg saae, for hende jeg sang,

Og glemte de fremmede Lande.

 

Hos hende jeg vilde bygge og boe,

Jeg vilde Vingerne miste,

Jeg vilde qviddre min bedste Sang,

Til Hjertet engang maatte briste!

 

Hun bøiede sig i Vinden bly,

Jeg rørte ved Blomster-Kjolen,

Jeg Tanken forstod i Bladets Duft,

Det rødmed’ i Morgensolen.

 

Og Blomsten bøied’ sit Hoved ned,

Jeg husker det Hele saa nøie!

Jeg syntes at læse min Kjærlighed

I hendes trofaste Øie.

 

Da kom der en Jæger, saa ung og smuk,

Han havde sin Bøsse paa Nakken,

Han tog min Blomst og satte den pænt

I Knaphullet foran paa Frakken.

 

 

En Dugdraabe faldt fra Blomstens Blad

Jeg troede, det var en Taare,

Da sang jeg og tænkte, saa skyder han mig!

Jeg ønskede Døden saa saare.

 

End dufter Blomsten saa smuk som før,

Den føler i Frakken sig hjemme!

Jeg flyver afsted fra By til By,

O, kunne jeg Blomsten dog glemme!

 

Jeg sørger – men synger dog meer end før,

Hver gang jeg flagrer paa Vangen,

Saa kommer der vel en Jæger en Gang,

Og skyder mig midt under Sangen!

 

 

I dreamt I was but a little bird

 

I dreamt I was but a little bird,

Over land and wave was gliding,

My heart’s emotions and all I saw

I had not a way of hiding.

 

I sang all thoughts deep-lodged in my breast,

Those sad and joyous sensations,

I soared and dived o’er the foaming sea

And many unknown locations.

 

One morning high on a branch I sat,

And chirruped songs ten a penny

The flowers in the grass stood all around

So lovely they were, so many .

 

But one with a scent and tint so rare

Excelled all others begotten,

On her I did gaze, for her did sing

And foreign climes were forgotten.

 

I there decided to build a nest,

And, even my wings forsaking,

I wanted to chirrup my finest song,

Till my heart at last were breaking !

 

Her head so chaste in the wind she bowed,

I touched the flower’s head full-flushing,

The petal’s scent I then understood,

In the morning sun bright-blushing.

 

And downwards lowered the flower its head,

I recall it all so closely!

My love so clearly it seemed I read

In her trusting eye though mostly.

 

A huntsman appeared, both bold and young,

With his gun slung o’er his shoulder,

He placed the flower in his buttonhole

Where she then did brightly smoulder.

 

A dewdrop fell from her petals fine,

Though maybe a tear concealing,

I sang then and thought, it’s me he’ll shoot!

For death I found so appealing.

 

The flower’s undiminished scent’s a home,

And never she will regret it!

From town to town I fly on and on,

If only I could forget it!

 

I grieve – though I sing more than before,

while I o’er meadow I’m winging,

A hunter will surely come along

And will shoot me while I’m singing!