En digters sidste sang
Løft mig kun bort, Du stærke Død,
Til Aandens store Lande;
Jeg gik den Vei, som Gud mig bød,
Fremad, med opreist Pande;
Alt hvad jeg gav, Gud, det var dit,
Min Rigdom ei jeg vidste,
Hvad jeg har øvet, er kun lidt,
Jeg sang’ som Fugl paa Qviste.
Farvel hver Rose frisk og rød,
Farvel, I mine Kjære!
Løft mig kun bort Du stærke Død,
Skjøndt her er godt at være!
Hav Tak, o Gud, for hvad Du gav,
Hav Tak for hvad der kommer!
Flyv Død, hen over Tidens Hav,
Bort til en evig Sommer!
A poet’s last song
Just pluck me hence, you mighty death,
To spirit realms unending;
The path for me which God has set
I’ll head erect stay wending;
All that I had, God, came from you,
My grasp of wealth was sparing,
What I’ve performed is little too,
I birdlike sang uncaring.
Farewell, each rose so fresh and red,
Farewell, those I love dearly!
Just pluck me hence, you mighty death,
Though life I prize sincerely!
My thanks for gifts to God on high,
My thanks for what is pending!
Fly death, across time’s ocean, fly
To summer without ending!
1 comment:
I copied the poem from a website and checked all the words, but discovered that the punctuation had been altered considerably in the first stanza, with exclamation marks added. HCA has them in every other line in the second stanza in his handwritten version, but not in the first stanza, so I have changed back to what he actually wrote.
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