En gång ska du vara en av dem som levat för längesen.
Jorden skall minnas dig så som den minns gräset och skogarna,
det multnade lövet.
Så som myllan minns
och så som bergen minns vindarna.
Din frid skall vara oändlig så som havet.
One day you will be one of those who have lived long ago.
The Earth will recall you as it recalls the grass and the forests,
the decomposed leaves.
As the soil recalls
and as the mountains recall the winds.
Your peace will be as endless as the ocean.
My walking stick’s got broken,
my roaming days are done,
I live among my fellow men,
among you not alone.
To heights bright but deserted
I once was led, by whom?
But then I glimpsed earth’s beauty.
Turned back and made for home.
In fields the rye’s maturing,
And harvesting’s in store.
Like other folk I’ll harvest too
and plough the fields once more.
Worn is my hand and broken
it is my walking stick.
I have made peace with him who
way back once gave me it.
Vem gick förbi min barndoms fönster
Vem gick förbi min barndoms fönster
och andades på det,
vem gick förbi i den djupa barndomsnatten,
som ännu inte har några stjärnor.
Med sitt finger gjorde han ett tecken på rutan,
på den immiga rutan,
med det mjuka av sitt finger
och gick vidare i sina tankar.
Lämnade mig övergiven
för evigt
Hur skulle jag tyda tecknet,
tecknet i imman efter hans andedräkt.
Det stod kvar en stund, men inte tillräckligt länge
för att jag skulle kunna tyda det.
Evigheters evighet skulle inte ha räckt till för att tyda det.
När jag steg upp på morgonen var rutan alldeles klar
Och jag såg bara världen som den är.
Allt var mig så främmande i den
och min själ var full av ensamhet och ängslan bakom rutan.
Vem gick förbi,
förbi i den djupa barndomsnatten
och lämnade mig övergiven
för evigt.
Who walked past my childhood window
Who walked past my childhood window
and breathed upon it,
who walked past in the depths of childhood night
that as yet does not have any stars.
With his finger he made a sign on the pane,
on the breath-misted pane,
with the soft part of his finger
and walked on in his thoughts.
Left me abandoned
for ever
How was I to interpret the sign,
made in the mist that was caused by his breath.
It remained for a while, though not long enough
for me to be able to read it.
An eternity of eternities would not have sufficed to read it.
When I arose in the morning the pane was quite clear
and I could only see the world as it is.
All seemed so alien in it to me
and my soul was lonesome and fearful behind the pane.
Who walked past,
past in the depths of childhood night
and left me abandoned
for ever.
Nu löser solen sitt blonda hår
Nu löser solen sitt blonda hår
i den första gryningens timma
och breder det ut över markens vår,
där tusende blommor glimma.
Hon väter det tankfull i svalkande dagg
i blommans fuktiga gömmen,
hon lossar det varligt från rosornas tagg,
men tveksamt, förströdd, som i drömmen.
Hon låter det smeka skog och äng,
hon låter det fara för vinden.
Nu smeker det barnen i deras säng
och de gamla på skrovliga kinden.
Men hennes tanke är borta från allt,
vad kan denna glädje väl båta?
Hon drömmer bland stjärnor, som tusenfalt
förstora det levandes gåta
Hon löser sitt hår och breder det ut
i morgonens saliga timma
och drömmer bland världar, som gått förut
och nya, som längtande glimma.
The sun lets down all her long blond hair
The sun lets down all her long blond hair
in the first of dawns’ early hours,
and spreads it out over meadows’ spring, where
there glimmer a thousand flowers.
She pensively dips it in thirst-quenching dew
in the flowers’ moist well-concealed seams,
she carefully frees it from rose thorns anew,
though unsure and bemused as in dreams.
She lets it caress leas and forest deep
she lets it be caught by the breeze,
caress every child in bed fast asleep
and old deep-furrowed cheeks at its ease.
But her thoughts are detached from all this,
for how can this joy be of use?
She dreams among stars that vastly increase
life’s enigma but grant her no clues.
She lets down her hair and spreads it out wide
in dawn’s hour that bliss is prolonging,
and dreams among worlds no longer spied
and new ones that glimmer with longing.
Om du tror på gud och någon Gud inte finns
så är din tro ett ändå större under.
Då är den verkligen någonting ofattbart stort.
Varför ligger der en varelse nere i mörkret och roper på
något som inte finns?
Varför förhåller det sig så?
Det finns ingen som hör att någon roper i mörkret. Men varför
finns ropet?
If you believe in god and no God exists
your belief is a yet greater miracle.
Then it is truly something inconceivably great.
Why is there a creature deep in the dark calling out
to something that does not exist?
Why is that the way things are?
There is no one who hears someone calling out in the dark. But why
does the call exist?
Strofer i Tusmørket
Skumringsstunder. Lune Aftener. Nattetimer.
Lad os tale, medens alting bliver stille: vi har mer at tale om.
Ræk mig endnu dine Hænder, naar du synes, vi skal tie,
de er hvide, de er milde, deres Tryk en venlig Dom.
Hører du i Nabolaget Port og Døre lukkes i?
Og det graaner saa fortroligt om os, til vi intet ser
uden dig og mig, der svulmer som en dobbelt Melodi,
vakt til Liv, mens Aftenfreden gør dig stum ved dit Klaver.
Skal vi vandre ned i Haven til det gode tyste Bord
midt paa Plænen under Asken, hvor i Skjul saa mange Gange
jeg har siddet lunt og lyttet til den sommervarme Jord,
munter med min slukte Pibe, medens Mulmet rundt om gror,
og du skimted næppe Bordet, naar du bragte mig mit Glas,
som jeg tømte under Træet, øm og frydefuld tilpas.
Skumringsstunder, lune Aftener, Nattetimer.
Har du set, at det nye Skud paa Rosen, det har skudt igen i Dag —?
Stryg en Tændstik og se efter — — Se, vor Have er beredt,
selv i Mørke har vi Roser, selv i Tavshed Velbehag.
Twilight verses
Dusk is falling. Balmy evenings. Nighttime hours in store.
Let us talk while all grows quiet: more talk between us would be fine.
Reach out your hands when the need for silence outweighs talk yet more,
they are white and they are gentle and their squeeze a well-meant sign.
Can you hear the neighbours’ gates and doors be shut as dusk arrives?
With greyness darkening until all that’s seen is you and me,
who seem like a two-part melody to swell and come alive,
while you sit silent in this calm at untouched piano keys.
Let us go down to the good quiet garden table yet again
under the mid-lawn ash tree, where I have sat in evening’s glow,
concealed and cosy, listening to rewarmed earth in summer’s reign,
cheerful with my unlit pipe, while the gloaming around us grows,
and you hardly glimpsed the table when you came out with my glass,
which I drained beneath the tree, in fond and gleeful mood at last.
Dusk is falling. Balmy evenings. Soon the hours of night.
The rose’s new shoot, have you seen it? – one more has come today.
Just strike a match and take a look –– See, our garden’s quite prepared,
Even in darkness we have roses, in silence joy holds sway.
Storken
Han kommer med Sommer, han kommer med Sol
til Kløver og nikkende Hvener.
Mens Pigen hun sømmer sin blommede Kjol
i Læ af de røde Syrener,
han sænker sig ned paa det mossede Tag
og knebrer fra Reden den udslagne Dag
en Højsommervise om Danmark.
Og Børnene stirrer fra Tærsklen didop,
hvor Løget paa Mønningen nikker,
og Oldingen ranker sin krogede Krop
i Stuen, hvor Slagværket dikker;
og Minderne dugger, og Læberne be’r,
og Børnene pludrer og peger og ler:
„Se Storken er kommen til Danmark!”
Velsignede Fugl uden Høgenes Klør,
med Ørnenes mægtige Vinge,
du dukker dig helst mellem græssende Kø’r,
kun Hygge og Fred vil du bringe;
du følger i Furen vor Bonde saa nær
og nikker som han, mens af Rugen det drær
med Løfte om Høst over Danmark.
Hvor Engblommen lyser langs Aaløbets Bred,
du skridter saa langt gjennem Engen;
med Halsen i Bugt og med Øjet paa Sned
du titter til Pigen og Drengen.
Du søger din Føde til Leernes Klang,
og Høduften følger din higende Gang
langs alle de Aaer i Danmark.
Saa lad os da værne den solkjære Fugl,
der pynter vor Vang og vort Vænge,
der ruger sit Kuld i det ormstukne Hjul
tilvejrs paa den mossede Længe.
Hans Yngel skal trives i Regn og i Sol,
hans Rede beskyttes som Hjemmets Symbol,
mens Sagnene lever om Danmark!
4/3 1912.
Storken
He comes with the summer, he comes with the sun
to clover and soft-dipping grasses.
To sew her flowered dress now the girl has begun
where lilacs form cool crimson arches;
on moss-covered roofs he prefers to alight
and from his nest clatters his daytime delight –
a high-summer song praising Denmark.
And up from the threshold the children all look,
where plants on the roof-ridge are dipping,
the old man now straightens his back like a crook,
indoors where the clock’s gently ticking;
and memories mist over, lips start to pray,
and chattering children now point up and say:
‘The stork, look, is back here in Denmark!’
Most blessed of birds without claws like a hawk,
with great wings like those of an eagle,
midst calm grazing cows do you swoop down and walk,
bring peace and well-being quite regal,
the farmer you tail as each furrow unfurls,
and nod just like him when the rye pollen swirls
and augurs good harvests in Denmark.
Where river banks gleam with their globeflowers well stocked,
through meadows you stride in full measure;
with neck craning downwards and head slightly cocked
you eye boys and girls at your leisure.
You seek for your food as the scythes slowly swish,
the scent of hay follows your gait’s yearning wish
along all the rivers of Denmark.
So let us this sun-loving bird treat with care
that graces our leas, fields and landscapes,
whose broods nest on worm-eaten wheels that they share
high up on old roofs with their moss-drapes.
In sun and in rain may his offspring e’er thrive
His nest as a symbol of home stay alive,
while legends exist about Denmark!
4.3.1912
Høgen
Vær hilset Høg over Granetop,
du stolteste Fugl i Skoven!
Du stirrer trodsigt mod Himlen op,
din Flugt er vild og forvoven.
Du kløver Brisen i vilden Lyst,
mens grønligt Øjnene spejde;
du hugger dit Næb i din Fjendes Bryst,
og aldrig du skjænker ham Lejde.
Du er en Røver for Gud og Mand,
i Blod du sølede Hammen;
du ser med Foragt paa den vrikkende And,
der spejler sin Fedme i Dammen.
Jeg elsker vel ej din blodige Klo,
men Flugtens Sus om din Bringe,
dit vilde Blik fra dit stolte Bo
og Solens Blink paa din Vinge.
The Hawk
My greeting, hawk above fir-trees high,
you proudest of birds in the forest!
Defiant you stare straight up at the sky,
your flight is as wild as it’s lawless.
You cleave the breeze with a wanton zest,
with greenish eye ever scouting;
you sink your sharp beak in your quarry’s breast,
its right to survive always flouting.
A brigand you are before God and man,
your body blood-red from the slaughter:
the duck’s waggling rump with contempt you scan,
reflected down there in the water.
No love of your bloody claw have I,
but your flight-smoothed breast in all weathers;
your savage gaze from your home on high
and the glint of the sun on your feathers.
Præludium
Sig nærmer Tiden, da jeg maa væk!
Jeg hører Vinterens Stemme;
Thi ogsaa jeg er kun her paa Træk,
Og haver andensteds hjemme.
Jeg vidste længe, jeg skal herfra;
Det Hjertet ikke betynger,
Og derfor lige glad nu og da
Paa Gjennemreisen jeg synger.
Jeg skulde sjunget lidt meer maaskee —
Maaskee vel ogsaa lidt bedre;
Men mørke Dage jeg maatte see,
Og Storme rev mine Fjædre.
Jeg vilde gjerne i Guds Natur
Med Frihed spændt mine Vinger;
Men sidder fast i mit snævre Buur,
Det allevegne mig tvinger.
Jeg vilde gjerne fra høien Sky
Udsendt de gladere Sange;
Men blive maa jeg for Kost og Ly
En Stakkels gjældbunden Fange.
Tidt ligevel til en Smule Trøst
Jeg ud af Fængselet titter;
Og sender stundom min Vemodsrøst
Med Længsel gjennem mit Gitter.
Lyt og, o Vandrer! til denne Sang;
Lidt af din Vei du hidtræde!
Gud veed, maaske det er sidste Gang
Du hører Livsfangen qvæde.
Mig bæres for, som ret snart i Qvel
At Gitterværket vil briste;
Thi qviddre vil jeg et ømt Farvel;
Maaskee det bliver det sidste.
Prelude
The time approaches for me to part!
Now winter's voice is compelling;
A bird of passage I know my heart
In other climes has its dwelling.
I have long known that I cannot stay;
This does not cause any grieving,
So free from care as I wend my way
I sing at times before leaving.
I should at times have perhaps sung more –
Or should perhaps have sung better;
But dark days crowded oft to the fore,
And gales my feathers did scatter.
In God's fair world I would fain have tried
To spread my wings out in freedom;
But I'm imprisoned on every side
And can't escape from my thralldom.
From lofty skies I would have fain have tried
To blithely sing and not fretted;
But for my shelter and food must bide
A jailbird poor and indebted.
At times I make the consoling choice
To let my gaze outward wander:
And sometimes send my poor mournful voice
Through prison bars yearning yonder.
Then listen, traveller, to this song;
To pass this way please endeavour!
It might, God knows, not last very long
Before this voice fades for ever.
This coming evening, I can foretell,
May see my prison bars breaking;
So I will chirp now a fond farewell,
The last maybe I'll be taking.
