Ungersvenden.
Snart sover Alt, ja Stort og Smaat,
Paa Græs og grønne Grene,
Men jeg - ak! det er ikke godt,
At Mennesket er ene!
O, gid jeg var af Jern og Staal!
Mit Hjerte let kan faae det!
Det er mig ligesom en Aal,
Jeg kan ei holde paa det!
- - -
Hver en Luftning sover paa det grønne Blad,
Stille drømmer Blomsten midt i Duggens Bad.
Seer Du, Maanen kommer hist, hvor Krattet groer?
Lavt paa Horizonten staaer den rund og stor.
Ved den sorte Granskov Søen gjør en Bugt,
Klart i Vandet speiler Krattet sig saa smukt.
Tys! sig noget rører! mon en Fugl der fløi?
Nei, det er to Piger, stille! gjør ei Støi.
Barnligt, uskyldsglade, gaae de Arm i Arm.
Ha! de kaste Klædet fra den hvide Barm;
Høit de løfte Armen! see det smækre Liv! -
- O, nu blev' de borte bag det høie Siv!
Jeg kan ikke see dem, det var dog saa smukt!
Men der har vi Maanen over Søens Bugt.
Den kan staae og see dem, høit fra Skyens Vold,
Den kan see dem begge, og er dog saa kold! -
Hør, med Eet det pladsked', see en Ring saa bred!
Hele Søen bæver jo af Salighed.
Hver en Blomst ved Bredden lukker Øiet op,
Og de stolte Graner bøie deres Top!
Alt er Duft og Længsel, Natten er saa tys,
Søen dem omfavner, giver Kys paa Kys,
Trykker sig saa salig op til Bryst og Arm,
Aldrig dog den svulme kan som deres Barm.
Aldrig nogen Morgen den i Solens Skjær
Rødmet har saa deiligt frisk, som Kinden her!
Ingen Tid den viiste Himlen os saa klar,
Som den Uskylds-Himmel, den i disse har. -
Nu med Vandet, Pigen paa den anden slaaer,
Om de runde Skuldre falder deres Haar;
Maaneskinnet viser det saa tykt og stort -
- Men der gik jo Maanen! - det var grusomt gjort! -
Fiskeren.
Aakanden har sit Bæger lukt,
Den under Fladen svømmer;
I Vandet Maanen staaer saa smukt,
Det er det Blomsten drømmer:
At begge to
Dernede boe;
Hvad kan man ei i Drømme troe?
Jo,jo!
Jægeren.
Blomsten dufter, for at brydes,
Frugten modnes, for at nydes,
Ender Livet, var det da
Dog et jublende: "Trara!"
Echo svarer, hør! "ja, ja!
Lev og nyd, trara, trara!"
The Youth
Soon all’s asleep, both great and small,
In grass and trees all mingle,
But as for me – ah, how it palls
For one to be so single!
Oh, were I but of iron and steel!
My heart just nowhere lingers!
It is with me as with an eel
That slips between one’s fingers!
- - -
Every breeze is sleeping on the leaves so green,
Every flower dreams quietly in the dew’s moist sheen.
Can you see the moon come where the scrub is found?
Low on the horizon it hangs large and round.
Near black woods of firs lake’s waters form a bay,
And the scrub is mirrored there in shades of grey.
Quiet! There’s something moving! Did a bird take flight?
No, it’s two young girls, stand still, keep lips sealed tight.
Arm in arm they walk in happy innocence.
Ah! Now bare white bosoms with indifference,
Lift their arms up high! Just see their slender waists! –
Oh! Tall reeds have hidden them, there’s not a trace!
It was lovely, they though now seem whisked away!
Even so, we have the moon above the bay.
It can see them clearly, from its banks of cloud,
Though so cold it sees them through their wispy shroud! –
Suddenly come splashes, see rings spread out wide!
All the lake’s a-quiver with a bliss devout.
Every shore-wide flower opens wide its eye,
And the fir trees bow their high crowns with a sigh!
All is scent and longing, and the night’s so still,
Now the lake showers kisses on them both at will,
Presses close and sheaths both breast and arm,
Never though can swell to match their bosoms’ charm.
Never either has a dawn, bathed in sun’s rays
Blushed as red and fresh as cheeks here in their glaze!
Never was the sky revealed to us so clear
As the sky of innocence in these two here. –
Now the two girls splash each other free from care,
And around their curving shoulders falls their hair;
In the moonlight all seems wonderful and great –
– Now the moon has vanished! – oh, how cruel is fate! –
The Angler
The lily’s calyx is shut tight,
Beneath the surface swimming;
The mirrored moon’s a floating light
This now the flower is dreaming:
That side by side
They both reside;
All’s possible in dreams, I guess?
Oh yes!
The Hunter
Flowers have scent, are made for plucking,
Fruit grows ripe, is made for sucking,
Though life ends, it was by far
One triumphant, loud ‘Terrah!’
Hear the echo from afar
‘Live, enjoy: Terrah, terrah!’
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