Steen Steensen Blicher (1782-1848): 'Min Yndlingsdal'

 

My favourite dale

 

Where are you, much-loved spot! what is your name?

       Where in the world shall I you e’er discover?

When will you bind me and my wishes’ flame

       For ever to your  arms as if a lover?

 

My childhood’s lovely dream – you dale unknown!

       Where amongst roses I’ll my hut be raising:

When shall I hear your sources tumbling down?

       When shall I feel your shadows’ warm embracing?

 

Where are you, lake! with your fine leaf-fringed shore?

       And with your clear waves’ gentle, peaceful lapping?

Where are you, grove! my resting-place and more,

       With your dense foliage’s murmured tapping?

 

Where are you, hut, with your reed roof of thatch?

       With the green leaves of tall birch trees spread over;

With your small windows and low door that match,

       Where raspberry canes for white walls offer cover.

 

Where, all around my hidden favourite spot,

       There is a thickly wooded chain of mountains,

And, down between their clefts into my plot,

       A trickling stream purls, serving as its fountain. 

 

And with me will night’s singer too reside,

       And I, entranced, will hear her voice regaling;

And she my joy, my rest, will then spread wide

       When my heart’s fulness hears my weak voice failing.

 

There will the early dawn at break of day

       Observe me speeding to my country labour

There will the sun as daylight fades away

       To me, tired farmer, smile as to a neighbour.

 

And when I my much longed-for home regained,

       I’d my beloved wife and children be embracing,

And at my frugal table sense again

       A glad and trusty friend, one ne’er forsaking.

 

I now have sought this dale out far and near,

       But as yet nowhere have I ever found it:

And this is why I’ve often shed a tear

       And my heart suffers grief which does confound it.

 

I see that yonder clouds are drawing close,

       The storm’s dark sides it is no longer hiding.

Around me thunder’s rolling grows morose,

       Behind the storm clouds the red sun’s now sliding.

 

And so farewell, my childhood’s lovely dream!

       The merciless stern voice of fate arraigns me!

I’m whirled off in my life’s fast-flowing stream,

       Stretch out my arms to you, but do so vainly.

To see the poem in the original Danish, go to here.

 

Carl David af Wirsén: 'Sången' (1882)

 

Sången

 

Hvad är min sång?

Ett vattusprång,

Som qväller upp och snabbt förrinner;

Det stupar ned

I enslig led,

Der månen blek ur skyar brinner,

Och strålar strö

På vågens snö

Ett dämpadt ljus, som halft försvinner.

 

Af träd en krans

I silfverglans

Omkring min ådra tätt sig sluter;

Bland gran och tall

Min böljas svall

Sitt lif i tysta stunder njuter,

Och utan namn

I flodens famn

Till sist min svala våg sig gjuter.

 

Hvad mer, om kall

Jag nämnas skall:

Jag trott, att vågen bör så vara.

Hvad mer, hvad mer,

Om knappt man ser

Den väg de gömda flöden fara,

Blott på ditt tåg

Du stärkt, o våg,

En enda dufven blomma bara!

 

 

The song

 

The song I sing?

A sudden spring

That gushes up and flows off slickly;

It plunges deep,

A lonesome streak,

Where out of clouds the moon burns sickly,

And scatters rays

On snow-topped waves

A dullish light that fades quite quickly.

 

Of trees a wreath,

A silver sheath

Round my deep well now tightly squeezes;

Midst firs and pines

My swell reclines

Enjoying life in quiet friezes,

And nameless still

In river’s swill

My cooling, merging wave last eases.

 

What of this spate

Can I else state?

I’ve thought this was the wave’s true sweeping.

What else, since we

Now barely see

The course the hidden flows are keeping,

On your advance,

Wave, you’ve enhanced

No more than just one flower half-sleeping!

 

Tove Ditlevsen: 'Ungdom'

UNGDOM

 

tilegnet mindet om Børge Lützhøft Christensen,

født 1921 - død 1941

 

Urolige hjerte,

hvor skyggerne gror

som graner i skumrende skove,

vor verden er lille,

vor længsel er stor,

vi har ikke tid til at sove.

 

Det sker at vi fanger

et mørkeblåt blik,

hvor stjerneskud skælver og svinder,

da flygter vi angst

for de gaver vi fik

og ængstes for alt hvad der binder.

 

Urolige hjerte,

hvor skyggerne gror

af nætter i fremmede lande;

en verden i vrede

har sat sine spor

på ungdommens sænkede pande.

 

 

YOUTH

 

In memory of Børge Lützhøft Christensen,

born 1921 - died 1941

 

Oh heart that is restless,

where shadows all grow

like pines when through twilight woods creeping,

our world is but little

our longing not so,

we do not have time to be sleeping.

 

And if we should capture

a look of dark blue

where shooting stars quiver and dwindle,

we then fly in fear

at the gifts we’ve received

and all that binds what it can kindle.

 

Oh heart that is restless,

where shadows all grow

from nights in far lands at this hour

a world that is wrathful

leaves traces which show

in youths that look downwards and cower.

 

Tove Ditlevsen: 'Forårsnat'

 

 FORÅRSNAT

 

Nu sænker Gud sit ansigt over jorden,

det store hjerte banker ganske stille,

og se, hans pande mod hvis hvælv du hviler,

er kølig som en forårsnat i Norden

 

Og skærmende han lægger hånden over

den gode jord, han skabte i sin glæde.

Han græder over vågne, kolde sjæle

og kysser dyrene og børn, der sover.

 

O, lyt en kølig forårsnat i Norden.

Guds milde røst er vindens sagte susen,

og evighed er lagt i blomsterånde,

- nu sænker Gud sit ansigt over jorden.

 

 

SPRING NIGHT

 

Now God down to the earth his face is sinking,

his great heart’s beating, endless calm enshrining,

and see, his forehead’s vault where you’re reclining

is cool as is a northern night in springtime.

 

His hand shields everything that’s in his keeping,

the good earth he created in his gladness.

He weeps at cold souls’ lack of rest and sadness

and kisses beasts and children that lie sleeping.

 

Oh, listen, this cool northern night in springtime.

God’s mild voice is the wind’s caressing murmur,

eternity is laid in flowers’ soft breathing –

Now God down to the earth his face is sinking.

 

 

Tove Ditlevsen: 'Sorgens elsker'

 

SORGENS ELSKER

 

Alle steder, alle tider

er du hos mig når jeg lider,

er du nær mig, når jeg drømmer

ved min længsels tabte spor.

Og jeg kysser dine hænder,

der som hvide blomster brænder

i en nat, der dunkelt strømmer

mod en blodbestænket jord.

 

Alle tider, alle steder

er du hos mig, når jeg græder,

er du nær mig, når jeg såret

bryder roserne itu.

Og du hvisker, og du trøster:

Sorgen er kun glædens søster,

blev dig lidelse beskåret

er du lykkens barn endnu.

 

Men på glædens hvide tinde

mødte jeg dig ingensinde,

der var tusind vilde svaner

til at kysse mine sår –

kun i søvnløshedens stræder

er du hos mig, når jeg græder,

er du nær mig, når jeg aner,

at mit liv er lagt i skår.

 

 

SORROW’S LOVER

 

Always, everywhere, you’re near me

when my suffering would sear me,

you are near me when I’m dreaming

where my longing’s path’s been lost.

And I kiss your hands with yearning,

Which like pure white flowers are burning

in a night that’s darkly streaming

down to earth that’s blood-embossed.

 

Always, everywhere, you’re near me

when my scalding tears would sear me,

you are near me when, frustrated,

into shreds I roses flay.

And you comfort, and you whisper:

Sorrow’s only joy’s own sister,

if to suffer you’re not fated,

still a happy child you’ll stay.

 

But on joy’s white summit mounted,

you I never have encountered,

there, though, thousand wild swans hurried

and to kiss my wounds stood guard –

only if sleep’s all-denying,

are you near me when I’m crying,

are you near me when I’m worried

that my life’s reduced to shards.

 

Tove Ditlevsen: 'En dag i december'

 

EN DAG I DECEMBER

 

Nu drejer en brændende klode

om solens blåtindrende kugle,

og Vinternatsmørket sænker sig tæt

med stjerner som tårer et væsen har grædt,

hvis sorg ingen stjerner kan skjule.

 

Og han der står udenfor kloden

og drejer den rundt med sin finger –

hans ansigt er koldt som den tindrende sne,

og det er et ansigt de aldrig skal se,

som tvivlen gav stækkede vinger.

 

Men vi der er småbitte kloder

af øm og begrænset viden

skal lukke os trygt om en jordisk tro,

mens den, der higer mod stjernernes ro

går vild mellem rummet og tiden.

 

 

A DAY IN DECEMBER

 

A planet that’s burning now orbits

the sun’s with its sphere’s blue-tinged glitter,

And winter night’s darkness downwards has crept

with stars just like tears that a creature has wept,

whose sorrow no stars can keep hidden.

 

And he who stands outside the planet

and spins it around with his finger –

his face is as cold as the glittering snow

and this is a face that they never shall know,

and whose doubt-pinioned wings make him linger.

 

But we who are just tiny planets

of knowledge that’s touchy and harnessed

seek safety enclosed behind earthly faith’s bars

while anyone seeking the peace of the stars

gets lost between space and time’s vastness.

 

 

Tove Ditlevsen: 'Regn'

 

REGN

 

Venner der gik og venner der kom,

regn over sortegrå tage,

tårer der drypper og falder så blødt,

én du har elsket, og én du har mødt,

da der ikke var lykke tilbage.

 

Regndråbers fald mod din åbnede hånd,

våde og skinnende blade,

rendestensfloder og hastende skridt,

et barn går imod dig, men er ikke dit,

og blir borte i barndommens gade.

 

Tungsind har lyd af dryppende regn

og slukker hvert lys, der brænder –

skumringen selv får et vemodsskær,

famler bedrøvet i parkens trær

med benede oldingehænder.

 

Snart skal du sove så sødt, så dybt,

var du mon éngang vågen?

Dryppende dråber fra modent korn,

dagen er borte – nymånens horn

skinner fortabt gennem tågen.

 

Gråden er stilnet – stjernerne står

som klokker, der svinger og ringer –

Den du har mistet er lysende nær,

sindet er blødt som et regnbueskær –

natten har veldige vinger.

 

 

RAIN

 

Friends that went out and friends that came in,

roofs charcoal grey from the raining,

tears that drip down and that fall soft and wet,

one you have loved and then one you have met

when no happiness still was remaining.

 

Falling of rain droplets onto your palm,

leaves that gleam bright from rain’s spraying

swift-flowing gutters and steps on the trot,

a child that approaches, but yours it is not

and in childhood’s street ends up by straying.

 

Deep-seated gloom sounds like rain as it drips

and puts out each light that’s burning –

twilight itself has an air of unease

mournfully gropes through the park’s green trees

with bony old hands and its yearning.

 

Soon you’ll be sleeping, so sweet, so deep,

were you awake once, ever?

Droplets that drip from the ripened corn

gone is the day now – the new moon’s horn

shines through a mist it can’t sever.

 

Weeping has ceased now – stars on high stand

like bells that are swinging and ringing –

Now is your lost love so radiantly near,

soft is your mind like a rainbow so sheer –

night on huge pinions is winging.

 

Hans Christian Andersen: 'Veni creator' (1830)

 

“Veni creator”

 

(En sand Tildragelse under den franske Revolution)

 

I Dalen staaer et Kloster hist i den fri Natur;

Med modne Druer slynger sig Ranken om dets Muur,

For Billedet i Nichen hver Vandrer bøier Knæ,

Mens Fuglen synger Hymner høit i det grønne Træ.

 

Bag Hyttens Dør staaer Bonden, han har den halv paa Klem.

Hvidklædt de blege Nonner fra Klosteret skride frem;

Den spæde Haand er bunden, hvor Friheds-Træet groer,

“Veni creator!” synge de Alle høit i Chor.

 

Paa Torvet bølger Vrimlen, en vild, en kulsort Sø.

— For hos sin Gud at leve, maa man paa Jorden døe!

Det er den glade Tanke, som giver Hjertet Mod,

Skjønt bøddel-Øxen damper alt med det røde Blod.

 

“Veni creator!” synge de Nonner. Rædselsdag!

Én Stemme høres mindre ved hvert et Øxeslag.

Det dæmpes meer og meer — hør end den Sidstes Sang! —

Med Eet der bliver stille — man hører Øxsens Klang.

 

 

‘Veni creator’

 

(A true occurrence during the French Revolution*)

 

Deep in the distant valley an abbey rises tall;

With ripe grapes laden, vines there twine up around its wall,

Before the niche’s statue each traveller bends the knee,

While birds sing tuneful anthems up in the green-leafed tree.

 

His cottage door half-open, the peasant sees them go.

The pale nuns in their habits advance in one long row;

Where grows the Tree of Liberty, youthful hands are bound,

‘Veni creator, all sing in chorus – one great sound. 

 

The market square is crowded, a coal-black sea awry.

– To live with God in heaven, on earth one has to die!

That is the thought which cheers them, gives courage, staves off dread,

Although the executioner’s axe is steaming red.

 

‘Veni creator!’ sing the nuns. A day of frightfulness!

At every single axe-blow there now is one voice less.

The chant gets ever fainter – till but one voice is found! –

Then suddenly there’s silence – one hears the axe’s sound.

 

 

* The reference is to the massacre of 16 Carmelite nuns in Compiègne on 17 July 1794.