Hans Christian Andersen: 'De to Fugle' (1833)

 

De to Fugle (1833)

 

Der bygger en Fugl her dybt i mit Bryst

Saa langt fra Blad og fra Grene;

Den synger i Smerte og selsom Lyst,

Fordi den sidder saa ene.

Den tør kun klynge sig fast til Gud,

Og see gjennem Øinenes Rude ud!

 

For hende den synger sin Sorg og Lyst,

Ved Nætter og lyse Dage;

Der bygger en Fugl i hendes Bryst,

Den søger den sig som Mage.

Den titter ogsaa fra Øiets Blaa

Mon Fuglen ikke kan Fuglen forstaae?

 

Hos mig den synger Alt, hvad den veed,

Mit Liv, min Tanke, min Stræben;

Den selv forraader min Kjærlighed,

Der flygtede bly for Læben.

Den synger sin dybe Sorg og Lyst;

Men Svar har ei Fuglen i hendes Bryst.

 

Den seer så taus gjennem Rudens Glar,

Og det gjør mig sorgfuld og bange.

Fortjener ei Fuglen det mindste Svar,

For Hjertets de dybe Sange?

Den fattige Fugl et hjerte bær’,

Saa tro, som den med de gyldne Fjer!

 

Den synger og sørger sig vist ihjel —

En Anden kan Bruden fæste,

Og hun — ja hun glemmer Fuglen vel,

Og det er ogsaa det Bedste!

De to var’ ei for hinanden skabt’,

Nu, døer den ene, hvad er saa tabt!

 

 

The two birds (1833)

 

A bird’s busy building deep in my breast,

So far from leaves and from trees there; 

It sings from a strange urge and sore oppressed,

Alone it feels ill at ease there.

To cling to God is all it dares do,

And through its eye’s windows take in the view.

 

For her it sings of its joy and distress,

Both night and day it is cheeping;

A bird’s busy building in her breast,

It too for a mate is seeking

It also looks outwards through eyes of blue

For surely a bird knows a bird that’s true?

 

In me it sings of all things it knows,

My life, my thoughts, my endeavours;

It even betrays my love that grows

Which slipped from my shy lips’ tethers,

It sings of its joy and deep distress

But silent remains the bird in her breast.

 

In stares in silence through panes of glass,

And then I feel woeful and cringing.

Surely the bird must deserve at last

An answer to heart’s deep singing?

The poor bird a heart has, if not bold

As true as that with the plumes of gold!

 

It will surely die from its song and grief –

Someone else her one day will marry;

The bird? Her memory of it be brief –

It’s all for the best not to tarry!

The two had paths that just merely crossed,

If one should die, then there’s nothing lost!