Olav Nygard (1884-1924)

Nygard is himself within a clearly romantic tradition, but with a very distinctive tone. What most obviously separates him from the increasingly modernistic authors of his own time, is the archaic language he always uses. It is Nynorsk, but shaped by his own dialect and with a vast variety of words, many of them endemic to his own poetic production. (Wikipedia)

No reiser kvelden seg

No reiser kvelden seg i vesterbrun,

han trør paa lette føter gjenom tun

og skuggeveven fjell imillom hengjer.

Det gjeng ei kviskring gjenom kjørr og lyng,

og talatrasten skifter ljod og syng

med avdagsskjelven under sine strenger.

Men dagen tek sin gangar fast i taum,

tek ferdakaapa paa med gullrend saum

og burt fraa blaane etter blaane skundar.

Det gular gjenom svale dal og lid

der skuggen ventar natta, brura si,

og ør i sine elskhugsdraumar blundar.

Med linne andardrag stig natta inn,

med myrke lokkar kringum hals og kinn

og herdaduk av elvelette eimar.

Og kløkke lundar, æolsharpe-klang,

ris bljugt som gjenteborn or moderfang

og sviv paa lettan fot i svale heimar.

Det gjeng ein sælebiv imillom fjell

so fræa emnar seg og hamsar fell

og undrings-øre augo upp seg vender:

Or djupe himlar slær ein baaregong

av evig skapings-gir og sfæresong

som helsar frendeblidt mot døkke strender.

Now evening rises

Now evening rises at the western edge

through farmhouse yards his way he lightly treads,

hangs mountains inbetween with muted shading.

Through scrub and heather whispering’s heard soon

and as it sings the throstle changes tune

with twilight tremolo its call pervading.

But firmly of his steed’s reins day takes hold

puts on his great cloak etched with seams of gold

twixt far horizons hurries at light’s closing.

A breeze moves through cool vale and mountain side

where shadow’s waiting for the night, his bride

and swooning in his dreams of love is dozing. 

And breathing gently night then enters in

with dark locks round her neck and cheek’s smooth skin

and shawl of elfine mists that swirl so lightly.

And dulcet tones, th’aeolian harp’s sweet charms,

rise shyly like a girl from mother’s arms

and float in cool realms light of foot and sprightly.

A quiv’ring bliss is felt twixt mountains tall

so seed starts growing, skins are sloughed and fall

and eyes turn upwards dazed by some great wonder:

from deepest heav’n sounds swell’s surge full and strong,

the endless urge to procreate, spheres’ song 

that greets as kinsfolk those dark shores far yonder.