Storken er reist til fremmed’ Land
Storken er reist til fremmed’ Land, Spurven boer i dens Rede;
Løvet falder, men Bærret staaer redt paa den sorte Hede.
Taagen ligger saa kold og klam, Vedet fældes i Skoven,
Bonden gaaer paa den vaade Mark, vælter Jorden med Ploven.
Over de sorte Muldvarpskud flyver en vildsom Svale,
Skjuler sig mellem Mosens Rør, kan ei synge, ei tale.
Draaben falder saa kold og tung ned fra Træernes Grene;
Minderne leve, uden dem følte sig Hjertet ene.
Som Oceanets dybe Ro førend Stormene stige,
Ja, som et Havblik er der i hele Naturens Rige,
Havblik, Forbudet paa en Storm, snart den stiger med Vælde,
Da skal Skoven staae som et Vrag, alt de Masterne fælde.
Tomhed breder sig meer og meer, her er ei Fryd, ei Smerte;
Livstomt staaer den stolte Naturs svulmende Digterhjerte.
Storks have flown off to foreign lands
Storks have flown off to foreign lands, sparrows their nests are keeping;
Leaves all fall but berries cling on out on the heath half-sleeping.
Swirling mists lie so cold and dank, wood’s felled and stacked for burning.
Farmers trudge through the soggy fields, ploughshares furrows are turning.
Over the molehills black as pitch, one frenzied swallow’s winging,
Hides among bogland’s many reeds, mute its cheeping and singing.
Droplets dribble heavy and cold, down from the tree’s wet branches;
Lonely hearts’ memories survive, vital to save their chances.
Like the deep calm the oceans know ere the storms toss and labour,
Yes, as if seas were all becalmed, such is the realm of Nature,
Dead calm, presager of a gale, soon its fury unfurling,
Then will the forests be as wrecks, tattered masts downwards hurling.
Emptiness spreads out more and more, here there’s no pain, no pleasure;
Nature’s poetic swelling heart – empty now beyond measure.
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