H.C. Andersen: 'Er du i verden vide'

 

Er Du i Verden vide,

Du er dog Hjemmet nær,

Gud aander ved din Side

I Luft og Blomst og Træer;

Du høre kan hans Stemme

I Dig og rundtenom,

Og føle du er hjemme

Hvor Du i Verden kom!

 

Og stedes Du i Fare,

Er uforskyldt i Nød,

Han vil dig vel forsvare,

Og der er ingen Død,

Og der er ingen Smerte.

Vort Jordlivs Stjerneskud

Er, fra en Moders Hjerte

At flyve op til Gud.

 

Disse Vers skrevne paa en eensom Bjærgvandring ved Setubal i Portugal 1866

 

 

Wherever you should wander

Your home is always nigh,

God breathes close by and yonder

In flowers and trees and sky

His voice you hear inside you

and everywhere you roam,

Though it be far and wide you

Will always feel at home.

 

If peril should befall you,

Or undeserved distress,

He’ll not let this appal you

And there’s no sting in death.

Nor pain in this existence –

Our life’s a shooting star

From mother’s heart the distance

To where God’s mansions are.

 

These lines written on a lonely mountain walk near Setubal in Portugal 1866

Harmen Wind: 'Remedie'

 

REMEDIE

 

Tegen de angst. Al wat ik schrijf

weerstaat mijn wanhoop, elke zin

waaraan ik ademloos begin

jaagt mij de stuipen van het lijf. 

 

Want op papier ben ik niet bang.

Hier gelden vastgestelde wetten

die mij uit razernij ontzetten

en redden van de ondergang. 

 

Kunst zet het leven naar zijn hand,

brengt het terug tot dunne lijnen

die zich, tegen verval bestand,

tot het verstilde beeld verfijnen

van windfiguren in wit zand

waarin ik veilig kan verdwijnen. 

 

 

REMEDY

 

Treatment for fear. All that I write

challenges my despair, each line

I breathlessly a place assign

chases away my fits of fright

 

On paper I am unafraid.

Here there are fixed rules that apply

which help my frenzied mind get by

and save it when it is dismayed.

 

Art places life at your command

makes of it thin lines which cohere

and even all decay withstand

creating here a tranquil sphere

of wind-formed figures in white sand

where I can safely disappear.

Vilhelm Ekelund: 'Då voro bokarna ljusa'

 

Prunus padus (hägg/bird cherry)

DÅ VORO BOKARNA LJUSA

 

Då voro bokarna ljusa, då var ån af

simmande hvit ranunkels öar sållad,

ljus sin krona häggen gungade här där

gosse jag vandrat. —

 

Tyst det regnar. Himlen hänger lågt på

glesa kronor. En hvissling; tåget sätter

åter i gång. Mot sakta mörknande kväll jag

färdas vänlös.

 

 

THEN THE BEECHES WERE LIGHT

 

Then the beeches were light, then isles of

floating marsh buttercups riddled the river,

light its crown the bird-cherry swayed here where

I roamed as a boy. –

 

Soundless the rain. The sky hangs low over

sparse tree-tops. A whistle: the train starts to

move on again. Toward slowly darkening evening I 

journey friendless.

'De Hirundine': The oldest poem in the Netherlands

Chelidonium majus (Greater Celandine, zwaluwkruid, svaleurt)

 

Gedicht van Radboud, Dienaar van de Heilige Kerk te Utrecht

Over de zwaluw

 

Ik heb een lichaam met een zeer geschikte vorm,

waarmee ik voor geen mens op aard tot last kan zijn.

Het is immers maar nauwelijks vier vingers lang;

daaruit bestaat mijn fijngevormde lichaamsbouw.

Vandaar dat ik in kerken nestjes bouwen mag

en in de mensenhuizen voor mijn jongen zorg.

De boeren breng ik nieuwe vreugden met mijn komst,

want kwett’rend roep ik: splijt de kale grond uiteen.

En breng ik in hun huis een beetje klei bijeen,

dan geld ik - tevergeefs - als bode van geluk.

Maar de natuur schonk mij een wonderlijk geheim

waardoor ik bij mijn kroost het zicht herstellen kan;

in die kunst ben ik zelfs Pythagoras de baas,

bij wie een blinde vruchteloos genezing zoekt.

Vandaar ook dat een plant die alom welig groeit

zelfs bij de stad, zijn naam ontleent aan onze naam.

De oudste naam ervan, die vindt men in het Grieks;

‘hirundinea’ komt van zwaluw in ’t Latijn.

Ik zet u, lezer, graag mijn levenswijs uiteen

opdat u meer bewond’ring voor de schepper krijgt.

Wanneer het lover komt en wind de bloemen brengt,

dan kom ik ook en vind bij mensen onderdak.

Daar maak ik dan een nest dat iedereen kan zien

- dat speelt een luie, onbedreven hand niet klaar.

Mijn pasgeboren, lieve jongen schuilen daar,

totdat ze volgen kunnen door de wijde lucht.

Ik neem die schare mee, we slaan de vleugels uit,

en onvermoeibaar vlieg ik zo de hele dag.

En dat is niet voor niets, want zweef ik door de lucht,

dan lacht de hemel blij het dichte koren toe.

Maar raak ik met m’n vleugels ’t modderig moeras,

beuk jij het land, Aeolus, met je regenvlaag.

Verkilt daarna de zon, en komt de herfst met sneeuw,

dan drijft het vaderland me weg, of vlucht ik zelf,

bekommer me niet meer om nest of gastvrij huis,

maar volg ik instinctief mijn eigen levensweg.

In verre grotten schuil ik voor de koude wind

en geef aldus een treffend beeld van de natuur.

O mens, beschouwt u het mysterie der natuur,

waardeer dan het geschenk van uw beschaafd bestaan.

De rede heerst in u, maar ik ben redeloos.

U leeft ook na de dood, mijn leven eindigt hier.

Weest u net zo mijn meerdere in ’t volgen van

uw scheppers wet, want dat beval de schepper zelf.

Poem by Raboud, servant of the Holy Church in Utrecht

Concerning the Swallow

 

I have a body with a most befitting form

which cannot cause offence to anyone on earth.

Scarcely four fingers does it measure in its length;

that is my finely formed physique in full extent.

And this is why in churches I may build my nests

and in the homes of humans I may rear my young.

New joy I bring to farmers that see me return,

for chirruping I call: now plough the barren land.

And should I bring a little clay into their home

I’m deemed – in vain – as harbinger of their good luck.

A wondrous secret though did nature give to me

by means of which my brood’s bad sight I can restore;

in this art e’en Pythagoras I can surpass,

from whom a blind man seeks a cure to no avail.

That too is why a plant which grows profusely everywhere

even close to the town derives its name from ours.

Its oldest name is Chelidonium in Greek;

‘hirundinea’ is the swallow’s Latin name.

I’d like to tell you, reader of my way of life

so that your Maker even more may you amaze.

When all comes into leaf and wind brings us the flowers

then I come too and find in homes a place to dwell.

There do I build my nesting place for all to see –

something a lazy, clumsy hand cannot pull off.

My new-born darling young all have their refuge there

I take my brood with me, our wings we spread out wide,

and never tiring I then fly the whole day long.

And not for nothing, for when I fly through the air,

the heavens smile down on the densely growing corn

But if I touch the mirely marshland with my wings,

you drum the land, Aeolus, with your showers of rain.

And if the sun grows chill and autumn comes with snow,

then does my homeland banish me, or I take flight,

no longer think of nests or hospitality,

instinctively then take my chosen path through life.

In distant caves I shelter from the biting wind

and thus of nature is my image highly apt.

Mankind, consider therefore nature’s mystery,

then prize the gift of an existence so refined.

Sense reigns in you, but my own lot is senselessness.

You live too after death, my life though ends right here.

You therefore should outdo me in the following

of your creator’s law, for so did he command.

Known as the oldest poem in the Netherlands, this poem is the translation of a translation. The poem was originally written in Latin. For the whole story, (if you understand Dutch) go to here.

 

R.M. Rilke: 'Der Schwan'

 

DER SCHWAN

 

Diese Mühsal, durch noch Ungetanes

schwer und wie gebunden hinzugehn,

gleicht dem ungeschaffnen Gang des Schwanes.

 

Und das Sterben, dieses Nichtmehrfassen

jenes Grunds, auf dem wir täglich stehn,

seinem ängstlichen Sich-Niederlassen—:

 

in die Wasser, die ihn sanft empfangen

und die sich, wie glücklich und vergangen,

unter ihm zurückziehn, Flut um Flut;

während er unendlich still und sicher

immer mündiger und königlicher

und gelassener zu ziehn geruht.

 

 

THE SWAN

 

This toiling, ponderously straining on

through things untackled and as if bound,

is like the gait of the ungainly swan.

 

And our dying, this lost apprehension

of what is our daily common ground,

like his sinking down with anxious tension–:

 

into waters which now gently sheathe him

and which constantly recede beneath him,

as if blithe and bygone slide by slide;

while infinitely calm and more secure

ever more regal ever more mature

he with great composure deigns to glide.

DRAUMKVEDET (Anon/Moltke Moe)

To see the original Norwegian ballad in Moltke Moe's version, go to here.

THE BALLAD OF THE DREAM

 

I

 

Hark unto me, a tale I’ll tell of a young man bold and strong,

a tale of Olav Åsteson, who slept a sleep so long.

 

On Christmas Eve he laid him down, he soon fell fast asleep,

he did not wake till past Twelfth Night when folk their church shall keep.

     And it was Olav Åsteson, who slept a sleep so long.

 

On Christmas Eve he laid him down, his sleep no one could break,

he did not wake till past Twelfth Night when birds their wings did shake.

 

He did not wake till past Twelfth Night, when it was morning tide,

Then did he saddle his fine steed and off to church did ride.

 

The priest up at the altar stands, reels prayers off by the ream,

Olav he sits down in the porch and tells of many a dream.

 

Men there were both young and old who lent a willing ear

while Olav Åsteson told dreams for all to hear.

 

II

 

On Christmas Eve I laid me down and soon fell fast asleep,

I did not wake till past Twelfth Night when folk their church shall keep

     For the moon shines bright and the roads are endless wide.

 

I have been high above the clouds and down in the blackest sea;

the one who’d in my footsteps tread, his heart shall ne’er laugh free.

 

I have been high above the clouds, in the darkest depths of the sea;

the one who’d in my footsteps tread, his mouth shall ne’er laugh free.

 

I have been up above the clouds and waded in mire as well.

Of heaven I have caught a glimpse and felt the flames of hell.

 

O’er holy water I have fared and valleys that lie low;

the water I hear yet cannot see, underground it surely must flow.

 

I am so tired and travel-worn, from thirst I burn like the sun;

the water I hear but cannot reach, underground it surely must run.

 

My sable steed it neighed not once, my dog no bark gave he,

the morning birds made not one sound – wondrous this seemed to me.

 

I found myself in another realm for many a long-drawn night,

as God in heaven knows I saw so many a sorry plight.

 

I know a bit of this and that, and therefore am found shrewd;

long was I buried ’neath the ground ere I thought this death good.

 

III

 

First on my journey I set out o’er a plain of sand and thorns,

My scarlet cloak was sorely rent, from each toe the nail was torn.

     For the moon shines bright and the roads are endless wide.

 

Next on my journey I set out through the narrow ring of thorns,

My scarlet coat was sorely rent, from each finger the nail was torn.

 

Then I arrived at Gjallar bridge that hung so high in the air

all of beaten gold it is, with studded turrets there.

 

The snake it strikes, the hound it bites, the bull it blocks the way;

these are the three on Gjallar bridge, their wrath makes all dismay.

 

The hound it bites, the snake it strikes, the bull stands ready to gore –

no one can pass over Gjallar bridge whose judgments flout the law.

 

I have crossed over Gjallar bridge, it was both steep and grim;

have waded through the miry bogs and now have done with them.

 

Waded have I through miry bogs, where I foot can never touch ground;

Crossed over Gjallar bridge have I, with grave-earth in my mouth.

 

I have crossed over Gjallar bridge, decked out with hooks and barbs,

worse though the bogs – may God preserve whoever there would pass.

 

IV

 

Then did I come to waters wide, where ice burns glittering blue;

God put this clearly in my mind, so from there I fast withdrew.

     For the moon shines bright and the roads are endless wide.

 

I found myself in another realm, where none could I behold,

only my blessèd godmother, her hands decked with red gold.

 

Some travelled over Grimar ridge and some over Skåle strand

but those who Gjallar pool did cross, bedraggled they reached land.

 

Then I did swerve off to the right, where the Milky Way does rise;

and gleaming over beauteous lands did I glimpse Paradise.

 

My godmother I saw once more, who saw how it fared with me:

“Now journey you to Brokksvalin, where Judgment Day shall be.”

 

V

 

Then did I come to the pilgrim’s church, where none could I behold,

only my blessèd godmother, her hands decked with red gold.

     In Brokksvalin, where Judgment Day shall be.

 

A mighty host came from the north and fiercely it did ride.

With Grizzly Greybeard at its head, a great host at his side.

 

A mighty host came from the north, and now I feared the worst;

With Grizzly Greybeard at its head upon a jet-black horse.

 

A mighty host came from the south, my heart from fear was freed;

Archangel Michael at its head upon a milk-white steed.

 

A mighty host came from the south and calmly it did ride;

Archangel Michael at its head, closest to Jesus Christ. 

 

A mighty host came from the south and slowly it did ride;

Archangel Michael at its head, his horn was by his side.

 

Archangel Michael took his horn and blew it loud and clear:

‘And now for every living soul does Judgment Day draw near!’

 

But then each sinful mortal shook like aspen leaves in the wind,

and each and every soul alive shed tears for every sin.

 

Archangel Michael took the scales and all did pay in kind,

all sinful souls that he there weighed were to Jesus Christ consigned.

 

VI

 

I saw a young man bear a boy, the first thing I did see;

his victim’s weight so burdened him he sank down to his knees.

     In Brokksvalin, where Judgment Day shall be.

 

Next that I met with was a man whose cloak was made of lead:

his sorry soul on this our earth was miserly indeed.

 

Next that I met with were some men who carried burning clay;

may God have mercy on poor souls who shift border stones away!

 

Next it was children that I saw, consumed in a fiery pit:

God’s mercy be with sinful souls who on father and mother would spit!

 

Next I did meet with toad and snake that each other sought to bite:

they were but sinful siblings who each other sought to blight.

 

Next did I meet a pair of snakes that would bite each other’s tail:

they were but sinful cousins who by carnal lust were flailed.

 

Then did I come to the Witches’ Gaol where hags were fettered in chains:

their task was churning crimson blood, which was a dreadful strain.

 

The heat of hell is a torment drear, worse that can e’er be abhorred;

there o’er a cauldron of pitch they hung, on a priest’s back it was then poured.

 

VII

 

Blessed is he who in life on earth the poor in need gave shoes:

He need not walk o’er the thorny heath barefoot should he not choose.

     Tongue shall speak and truth reply on Judgment Day.

 

Blessed is he who in life on earth to the poor in need gave a cow:

No faltering steps need he e’er take on Gjallar bridge’s high brow.

 

Blessed is he who in life on earth to the poor in need gave bread:

When hounds fierce howl in the other realm, he need never stand in dread.

 

Blessed is he who in life on earth to the poor in need gave corn:

On Gjaller Bridge he need never dread the bull with the sharp-tipped horn.

 

Blessed is he who in life on earth the poor in need gave meat:

In the other realm he need never dread either scorn or bitter hate.

 

Blessed is he who in life on earth the poor in need gave clothes:

In the other realm he need never dread the glacier where blue ice glows.

     Tongue shall speak and truth reply on Judgment Day.

 

VIII

 

Men there were both young and old who lent a willing ear

now has Olav Åsteson told dreams for all to hear.