Med en bouquet
Den har ei Sjel, som ikke troer,
Naturen er en aaben Bog,
at Mossens blege Klippeflor
saa vel som Rosen har sit Sprog.
Det kjender Du, min Elskte, vel.
Du Drømmen seer i Klokkens Bund.
Du fatter Liljens tause Sjel
og Ordene fra Rosens Mund.
Lad da din skjønne Fantasi
blandt Somrens Blomster sværme om!
For Hende, Blomster, taler I!
Hun er jo selv saa favr en Blom.
Paa Morgenrødens Høie groe
kun Roser lige hendes Kind,
paa Lysets Bjerg, hvor Engle boe,
kun Liljen reen som hendes Sind.
Og ikkun hist, hvor Dagens Blaa
frembryder som en Kilde klar,
saa fagre Blaavioler staae
som hendes søde Øienpar.
With a bouquet
He has no soul who won’t believe
that Nature is an open book,
that moss’s pallid rock-flowers have,
like roses, voice as well as look.
My love, you know this as of old.
The bell-flowers dreams to you disclose.
You know the lily’s silent soul,
the words soft-spoken by the rose.
Let then your fantasy now seek
midst summer flowers to roam so free!
And flowers, for her I charge you speak!
For such a lovely flower is she.
On hills where dawn’s flush casts its spell
there grow but roses like her cheek,
on peaks of light, where angels dwell,
but lilies pure as she is meek.
And only there where blue of day
like spring so clear does now arise,
grow violets in blue array
as lovely as her pair of eyes.
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