A well-loved poem by the Dutch poet J.H. Leopold

Round my old house tall poplars crane

Round my old house tall poplars crane

‘my love, my love - where are you now’

a narrow lane

of wet leaves, and the fall to come.

And on and on the dull refrain

‘my love, my love - where are you now’

of rain on rain

past grieving, and the wind is dumb.

The house is hollow, dark and bleak

‘my love, my love - where are you now’

with whispered creaks

of attic beams that will not cease.

Inside sits someone hunched and lined

‘my love, my love - where are you now’

whose eyes are blind

whose mind finds neither rest nor peace.

To hear this translation read, go to here

 

Lenngren lambasts the clergy

See didn't spare the clergy either. See here.

Anna Maria Lenngren in good form as usual

Till fru ***, som är rädd för ormbett

Ni anser ormbett som en fara –

Men om ett sådant djur er stack,

Så kan ni säker derpå vara

Att ormen straxt af etter sprack.

For Mrs ***, who is afraid of snakebites

A snakebite you regard as frightening –

If such a creature did its worst,

You can, though, rest assured like lightning

The snake from venom then would burst.

Another one from Anna Maria Lenngren

Gunild’s spectacles

Since she, with nose both pinched and squeezed,

       Through glass discs by the urge to read

The Holy Scripture has been seized,

       Old Nick must for us intercede,

       For just as they enlarge the words

In her great velvet-covered book

       With silver hooks,

       She now takes far too large a look

At every fellow mortal’s faults upon this earth.

A typical barbed little poem from Anna Maria Lenngren

For Lise, who requested to be portrayed as a nun

I thought you’d be content, as you’re full grown, to be

A dazzling Venus in my picture;

But since you now request of me

That as a nun I shall depict you,

This thereby halves the difficulties I foresee,

For, lovely Lise, since I’d not offend good taste,

Your portrait as a nun should reach but to the waist.

A pious hope - Ambrosius Stub on the end of winter

To see the translation, go to here.

A poem from 6 February in Klaus Høeck's '1001 POEMS'

     one swears by the soul

of one’s dead mother but it

     ought rather to be

     by her body (by

     her ashes) since it

is the flesh which will rise a

gain on the day of judgment

     and it is thus the

     body which can be

     lost for all eter

nity under the cold si

     licon of the stars

A much later Brorson, from his 'Svanesang' (Swan Song), published one year after his death

Jesus is all to me.

Jesus is all to me. Nought can befall me

     I cannot bear;

Since e’en what’s best will be later recalled, he

     Only is there.

Wordly things we merely loan or we borrow,

     Pass to and fro;

They change hands constantly, now or tomorrow.

     Ah! Let them go!

Jesus is &c. &c.

Time’s but a grain of sand, hardly a second,

     All goes so fast.

Misery’s over though when death has beckoned –

     Home, then, at last.

Be of good cheer, my heart! let nothing earthly

     Vex or annoy!

Better to trust in one’s fortune, with mirth to

     Sing songs of joy.

Time’s but a grain &c. &c.

One of Brorson's best-known hymns

Here come your children, Jesus

Here come your children, Jesus, they

to Bethlehem all make their way;

to every soul and mind give light

to find the path to you aright.

With songs we hasten you to meet

and kiss the dust here at your feet;

o blessed hour, o night so clear,

when you were born, soul’s treasure dear!

When you came from your heav’nly throne

to this drear vale, the welcome shown

was nothing else, while you drew breath,

than stable, manger, cross and death.

In Satan’s power the whole world stood,

when Jesus, hands bright red with blood,

with mighty power did tear us free

from all our foes’ foul tyranny.

But Jesus, ah, how can it be

that so few people try to see

the fervent nature of your love

that drew you earthwards from above?

So draw us close up to your breast,

o Jesus, friend our soul loves best,

that each of us may by your grace

and through our faith you then embrace.

Let not the world’s power break your prized

firm convenant with all baptised,

but grant that all our longing stay

for you, for you alone, we pray!

Then it shall be that we one day,

among the saints’ rejoicing, may

in heaven’s paradise anew

your praises sing as angels do!

We stand here now, a mighty host,

around you, flower-heart we love most.

Ah, help us, so this mortal band

one day before your throne may stand!

Poem by the Danish writer Chr. Richardt

Nighttime star, please teach me

Nighttime star, please teach me

unswervingly, completely

just to tread the path I see

heaven’s Lord’s apportioned me!

Nighttime star, please teach me!

Meadow flowers, please teach me

that summer soon will reach me,

though the world is deep in woe

’neath winter snow to start to grow!

Meadow flowers, please teach me!

Barren heath, please teach me

you brown lark’s nest, if needs be,

though no harvest’s richly blessed,

to let the song dwell in my breast!

Barren heath, please teach me!

Countless waves, please teach me

to bear my yoke discreetly,

at setting sun, like you, not cease

to mirror some of heaven’s peace!

Countless waves, please teach me!

Rich-green groves, please teach me

to offer shade to each, be

it friend or foe that passes by

along my path in sun-filled sky!

Rich-green groves, please teach me!

Sun in cool of evening,

teach me the art of leaving,

to night’s depths never to be drawn

unless at dawn I rise reborn!

Teach me, sun, such leaving!