Poems and Songs by Bjørnstjerne Bjørnson (feel good books .txt) 📕

hosen, yes.
The red one's, they were white,--and oh,
The white one's, they were red.



YOUTH

Mood of youth,
Mood of youth,
Eagle-like must seek the blue,
Dauntlessly its course pursue,
All the mountain-heights must view.
Blood of youth,
Blood of youth,
Steam-like puts full-speed to sea,
E'en though storm and ice there be,
Makes its way and romps in glee.
Dream of youth,
Dream of youth,
Rogue-like stealing sets its snare
In the maiden's morning-prayer;
All the springtime, fragrant, glowing,
In its airy waves is flowing.
Joy of youth,
Joy of youth,
Waterfall-like foams in truth,
Laughing, rainbow-gifts forth flashing,
Even while to death 't is dashing.
Joy of youth,
Dream of youth,
Blood of youth,
Mood of youth,
Clothe the world with colors golden,
Singing songs that never olden.



THE BLONDE MAIDEN

Though _she_ depart, a vision flitting,
If I these thoughts in words exhale:
I love you, you blonde maiden, sitting
Within your pure white beauty's veil.
I love you for your blue eyes dreaming,
Like moonlight moving over snow,
And 'mid the far-off forests beaming
On something hid I may not know.

I love this forehead's fair perfection
Because it stands so starry-clear,
In flood of thought sees its reflection
And wonders at the image near.
I love these locks in riot risen
Against the hair-net's busy bands;
To free them from their pretty prison
Their sylphs entice my eyes and hands.

I love this figure's supple swinging
In rhythm of its bridal song,
Of strength and life-joy daily singing
With youthful yearnings deep and long.
I love this foot so lightly bearing
The glory of sure victory
Through youth's domain of merry daring
To meet first-love that hers shall be.

I love these hands, these lips enchanting,
With them the God of love's allied,
With them the apple-prize is granting,
But guards them, too, lest aught betide.
I love you and must say it ever,
Although you heed not what you've heard,
But flee and answer: maidens never
May put their trust in poet's word.



THE FIRST MEETING

(FROM THE FISHER MAIDEN)

The first fond meeting holy
Is like the woodbirds' trilling,
Is like a sea-song thrilling,
When red the sun sinks slowly,--
Is like a horn on mountain,
That wakes time's sleep thereunder
And summons to life's fountain
To meet in nature's wonder.



GOOD-MORNING

(FROM THE FISHER MAIDEN)

Day's coming up now, joy's returned,
Sorrow's dark cloud-castles captured and burned;
Over the mountain-tops glowing
Light-king his armies is throwing.
"Up now, up now!" calls the bird,
"Up now, up now!" child-voice heard,
Up now my hope in sunshine. "



MY FATHERLAND

(FROM THE FISHER MAIDEN)

I will fight for my land,
I will work for my land,
Will it foster with love, in my faith, in my child.
I will eke every gain,
I will seek boot for bane,
From its easternmost bound to the western sea wild.

Here is sunshine enough,
Here is seed-earth enough,
If by us, if by us all love's duty were done.
Here is will to create;
Though our burdens be great,
We can lift up our land, if we all lift as one.

In the past we went wide
O'er the sea's surging tide,
And the Norman's high walls stand on many a shore.
But our flag flies its way
Ever farther to-day
And is red with life's vigor as never before.

Great our future shall be;
For the Northern lands three
Shall unite once again and their true selves shall know.
Give your strength and your deed,
Where you nearest see need,
As a brook to the river that forward shall flow.

Yes, this land where we dwell,
Oh, we love it so well,
All was, all it is, all it can be again.
As our love had its birth
In this homeland's dear earth,
Shall the seed of our love bring it increase again.



CHOICE

(See Note 33)

April for me I choose!
In it the old things tumble,
In it things new refresh us;
It makes a mighty rumble,--
But peace is not so precious
As that his will man shows.

April for me I choose,
Because it storms and scourges,
Because it smiles and blesses,
Because its power purges,
Because it strength possesses,--
_In it the summer grows._



NORWEGIAN SEAMEN'S SONG

(FOR THE STAVANGER REGATTA, 1868)
(See Note 34)

Norwegian seamen are
A folk grown strong 'neath sail and spar;
Where boats can find a way,
The best men there are they.
On high seas or at home,
In calm or when the storm-waves comb,
To God their prayer they make,
Their lives they gladly stake.

Incessant is their strife,
They wage with death a war for life,
And dear their souls they sell
In conflicts none can tell.
All that is commonplace
In history seldom leaves its trace,
And often none is there,
The tidings home to bear.

But fishing-boats in need
Have shown so many a daring deed
Of courage fine and skill,
Though unrecorded still.
And many a seaman's head
A wreath of sea-weed wore when dead,
Whose name should shine in gold
Among great heroes bold.

Saint Olaf's Cross's praise
Would on that pilot fitly blaze
Who saved a hundred men,
And hundred once again.
To many a boy so young,
Who riding home to boat's keel clung,
His father set on board,
We honor should accord.

In Norway's mountain-coast
Our land's own mother-breast we boast,
With food for us and tears
For sons whom danger nears.
In it each deed has lot,
And there no brave son is forgot,
From Hafurfjord's great day
To the last castaway.

This each one felt and found
Who homeward came and looked around;
This each one felt who went,
In the last look he sent.
They felt the ocean o'er:
Their ships our country's fortune bore;
Honor and power it sought,--
And these the white sails brought.

Hurrah for them to-day
Who the Norwegian flag display!
Hurrah for pilots true
Who forth to meet them flew!
Hurrah for them who ply
Their fishing-boats 'twixt sea and sky!
Hurrah for all our boast,
Our skerry-skirted coast!



HALFDAN KJERULF (1868)

(See Note 35)

Winter had sought his life's tree to o'erthrow,
Youthful and strong. But his blood's vernal flow
Saved it from death through the cold and the maiming;
Late in the summer bright flowers were flaming,
Late in the autumn they swelled to completeness,--
Fruits that were few, but of fragrance and sweetness.

Poets received them to endless seed-sowing,
Where for his folk endless summer is glowing,--
While more and more,
Stricken he hung o'er the death-river's shore,
Fighting in weakness the winter abhorred,
Fighting for summer, the singer's reward,
Fighting while failing, with modesty rare,
Soon but in prayer.

Summer received him! He now is victorious!
Now, while they harvest the yellowing corn,
Now, while the hills hear the notes of the horn,
_He_ enters glorious.

Mirrored in him is true poetry's force,
Marked by our winter, in summer its source.
E'en as the air with its quivering sheen,
Leaves of the forests and red peaks serene,
Waters that wander 'mid meadows delaying
Sound with the music the sunshine is playing,--
Poetry also shall leap with new life,
If it, though failing, is faithful in strife:--
Leap from death's thronging:--
_Soon comes the summer with summer's pure longing._



NORWEGIAN STUDENTS' GREETING WITH A PROCESSION

TO PROFESSOR WELHAVEN
(See Note 36)

Hear us, O age-laden singer!
Streams of your tones are returning,
Touching your heart!
Spirit of youth is their bringer,
Under your window with yearning
Called by your art.
Now our soul's echoes abounding
Soar in the blue,
In the sun-shimmering blue,
High where your silvery song-notes are sounding.

Smile on your labor now lightened,
You who in winter perfected
Seeds to be sown!
All that your courage has brightened,
All that your pity protected,
Now it is grown;
Over your shoulders upswinging,
Folds round your frame,
Bringing in roses your name,
Joyous the sprite of your poetry bringing.

Onward our life is now marching,
Banner-like high thoughts are flying,
Lifted to view.
One 'mid the foremost o'erarching
Leads where the pathway is lying,--
It came from you!
Runes of our past with their warning
Carved on its shaft,
Show us the spring you have quaffed,
Leading our land to the light of the morning.