Digtets Aand
Hvad ei med Ord kan nævnes
i det rigeste Sprog,
det Uudsigelige,
skal digtet røbe dog.
Af Sprogets strenge Bygning,
af Tankeformers Baand
stiger en frigjort tanke,
og den er Digtets Aand.
Den boede i Sjælen,
før Strophens Liv ble til,
og sprogets Malm er blevet
flydende ved dens ild.
Den gjennemtrænger Ordet
lig Duft, der stiger op
af Rosentræets Indre
i den aabnede Knop.
Og skjønt den ei kan præges
i Digtets Tankerad,
den er dog tilstede
som Duft i Rosenblad.
Glem da den gamle Klage,
at ingen Kunst formaaer
at male Tankefunken,
hvoraf et Digt fremstaaer.
Thi hvis den kunde bindes
og sløres af paa Prent,
da var i denne Skranke
dens Liv og Virken endt.
Den vil med Aandens Frihet
svæve paa Ordets Klang;
den har i Digtets Rhytmer
en stakket Gjennemgang.
En Gjennemgang til Livet
i Læserens Bryst;
der vil den vaagne atter
i Sorrig eller Lyst.
Og næres og bevæges
og blive lig den Ild,
der laae i Digtersjælen,
før Strophens Liv ble til.
Kun da bevarer Digtet
sin rette Tryllemagt,
det Uutsigelige
er da i Ordet lagt.
Betragt den stille Lykke,
der gjør en Digter varm,
mens Aanden i hans Sange
svæver fra Barm til Barm.
Lad kun hans Rygte hæves
mod Sky af Døgnets Vind,
det er dog ei den sande
Kvægelse for hans sind.
Men naar hans Tankebilled,
med eller uden Ry,
finder et lutret Indre,
og fødes der paany –
O, bring ham da et Budskab
om dette Aandens Bliv;
thi dermed er der lovet
hans Værk et evigt Liv.
The poem’s spirit
What e’en in richest language
stays locked with seven seals,
though words cannot express it
the poem yet reveals.
From language’s stern structure
from thought’s constrictedness
a free idea emerges –
the poem’s spirit this.
Within the soul its home was
ere verse was its attire,
and language ore turned fluid
when heated in its fire.
The word it quite suffuses
like scent that rises up
from deep within the rose bush
in every flower cup.
And though the serried poem
can never hold it pent,
it still is always present
as is rose-petal’s scent.
The old complaint dismiss then
that no art ever can
portray the spark of thought out
of which a poem sprang.
For if it could be fettered
and be in print revealed,
it would within those limits
its life and force then yield.
It would with spirit’s freedom
on word-sounds dearly float;
and has in poem’s rhythms
a passage far too short.
A passage to a new life
within the reader’s breast;
there once more it will waken
in joy or sore oppressed.
And there be moved and nourished
and be just like the fire
that in the poet’s soul lay
ere verse to life aspired.
Thus only can the poem
retain its magic power
and what defies expression
within the word can flower.
Regard the tranquil pleasure
with which the poet’s blessed
when from his songs the spirit
now floats from breast to breast.
And let his fame but skywards
be borne by this day’s wind,
’tis not the true refreshment
that can assuage his mind.
But when his mental image,
though fame or none he knew,
takes root in some pure bosom
and there is born anew –
Oh, bring him then a message
his spirit there is rife,
for then his work is promised
what is eternal life.
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