Studier efter Naturen
II.
Die Mühle dreht ihre Flügel,
Der Sturm, der sauset darin.
Adalbert von Chamißo
Vort Landskab her er næsten fladt;
Men Maanen skinner jo i Nat!
Dog, hvad vi ved dens Lys har seet,
Er kun, at Alt gaaer ud i Eet.
Forgrunden maae vi blive ved;
Der er lidt høit paa dette Sted;
Veirmøllen, som vi skal forbi,
Gjør, at vi faae et Malerie.
Saa lystigt alle Hjul nu gaae;
Et Lys man seer bag Lugen staae,
Og Svenden bærer Sækken bort;
Hans Kammerater spille Kort;
Ølkanden midt paa Bordet staaer.
See, Møllevingen, hvor den gaaer!
Men mellem Skyer Maanen leer,
Og fornemt paa det Hele seer.
Nu kommer der en Byge-Regn,
Den skygger os den halve Egn,
Og hver en Hest og hver en Ko
Forstyrres i sin søde Ro;
Og da paa Marken ei er Læ,
De staae, som var de gjort af Træ.
Dog, Maanens Lys er ikke slukt,
Thi see, en Regnbue hvælver smukt.
Regnbuen over Møllen staaer,
Det er, som Vingen mod den slaaer,
Og under Mølle-Husets Tag,
Der sover til den lyse Dag
Vor Møllers lille syvaars Dreng;
Høit under Bjelken er hans Seng;
Han ene sover der, som sagt,
Thi Moder er i Jorden lagt.
Han hører Hjulene at gaae,
Og deres Støi kan han forstaae;
Han titter gjennem Rudens Glar,
Og seer det store Vinge-Par.
Høit vil de stige mod det Blaae,
Men kan kun i en Cirkel gaae;
De flyve Dag og Nat og Aar -
Men Møllen dog paa Bakken staaer.
Nature Studies
II.
Die Mühle dreht ihre Flügel,
Der Sturm, der sauset darin.
Adalbert von Chamißo
It’s almost flat our landscape here,
The moon though shining bright and clear!
Yet what we know its light has seen
Is that all blends to form one scene.
The foreground suits our purpose best,
It’s slightly higher than the rest;
The hill-top windmill will complete
A picture that is hard to beat.
So merrily the wheels all turn,
A half-lit hatch one can discern;
The mill-hand carries off a sack,
His mates play cards just further back;
Nearby the table’s beer jug stands.
Just see the mill-sail’s whirling bands!
Between the clouds the moon surveys
The scene with condescending gaze.
And here there comes a shower of rain
That blots out half of the terrain,
And every horse and every cow
Will find sweet rest disturbed right now;
They’re without shelter on the land
And as if made of wood they stand.
The moon’s light though is not at fault,
Just look – a rainbow’s soaring vault.
Above the mill the rainbow stands,
A touching wing of coloured bands,
And up beneath the house roof lies,
Until the morning fills the skies,
The seven-year-old miller’s lad;
Up midst the rafters is his bed;
He sleeps alone, for further down
His mother lies deep in the ground.
He hears the wheels turn close at hand,
Their loud noise he can understand;
Through window panes he looks and spies
The wing-like sails’ enormous size.
They reach the sky of blue above,
But only in a circle move;
Though days and nights and years they spin –
The mill stands where it’s always been.
No comments:
Post a Comment