Jeppe Aakjær: 'Høgen'

 

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.