Strandparti med klitter. Jyllands vestkyst (Dankvart Dreyer) |
Maleri fra Jyllands Vestkyst
VI.
Den hela jorden liknar här ett lik,
Och himlen står, liksom en mördare,
I blodig skrud, betraktande sitt offer.
Atterbom
Man seer ei Træ, ei Busk, selv Lyngen vil ei groe,
Fra Sandet pipper frem et Græsstraa eller to;
Sandklitter reise sig, de vexle Dag for Dag,
Og rundt om stikke frem de nøgne, sorte Vrag.
Foruden Grændse Havet udstrakt for os staaer,
Speilklart og glat det er, saa langt som Øiet naaer;
Strandbredden er belagt med Stene, store, smaa,
Og alle runded’ smukt, see, røde, hvide, blaa!
Hist komme Fiskere, de gaae til Havet fro;
En herlig Slægt det er, med Marv i hver en Kno.
Nu læses først en Bøn, fromt folder sig hver Haand,
Saa ile de med Christ, Gud og den hellig Aand.
Den gamle Mo’er paa Klinten staaer,
Saa graat som Sand er hendes Haar;
Hun drikker Solens Ild saa smaat,
Og skutter sig, det gjør saa godt.
Men som hun ret paa Havet seer,
Strax hendes gustne Ansigt leer;
Thi ude, hist paa Bølgens Hjem,
En prægtig Seiler glider frem,
Men uden Roer og uden Mast;
Den borer sig i Sandet fast,
Det Dødningskibet er, man seer,
Thi see — — — nu er det ikke meer.
Da knæler fromt den gamle Mo’er,
Hun læser høit et Fadervor,
Og siger: „Gud til os Du see!
Lad det paa vores Kyst dog skee!
De drukne vist, den hele Flok,
Men vi skal leve, veed Du nok!“
Painting from the West Coast of Jutland
VI
The earth entire here looks just like a corpse,
And here the sky stands like a murderer,
In blood-stained vestments, gazing at its victim.
Atterbom
No tree, no bush, not even heather does one view,
From sand there peeps but a lone blade of grass or two
Sand dunes tower up, but change position day by day.
And naked, charcoal shipwrecks stick out like dead prey.
Before us stretches out the vast unbounded sea,
It’s mirror-smooth and clear as far as we can see,
The shore is strewn with stones, large, small, of changing hue,
All beautifully rounded, look – red white and blue!
Now come the fishermen, with joy the sea they view;
So marvellous a breed, each bone well-marrowed too.
A short prayer first is said, with folded hands they pray.
Now armed with God, Christ, Holy Ghost they haste away.
Up on the dune the old crone stands,
Her strands of hair are grey as sand!
She drinks in sun’s wool-threads a bit
And snuggles down, quite pleased with it.
But looking at the sea a while
Her pallid face now starts to smile.
For out there on the waves so blue
A splendid sailship she can view,
But with no rudder and no mast
It hits the sand and is held fast;
The Ship of Death is what one sees,
For look – from view it simply flees.
Down on her knees falls the old crone,
The Lord’s Prayer she aloud intones
And says: ‘Lord God, look to us, do!
Upon this coast let this come true!
They’re sure to drown, all those on board,
But we shall live, you know this, Lord!’
