Mountain Song (From A Happy Boy)

When you will the mountains roam
And your pack are making,
Put therein not much from home,
Light shall be your taking!
Drag no valley-fetters strong
To those upland spaces,
Toss them with a joyous song
To the mountains' bases!

Birds sing Hail! from many a bough,
Gone the fools' vain talking,
Purer breezes fan your brow,
You the heights are walking.
Fill your breast and sing with joy!
Childhood's mem'ries starting,
Nod with blushing cheeks and coy,
Bush and heather parting.
If you stop and listen long,
You will hear upwelling
Solitude's unmeasured song
To your ear full swelling;
And when now there purls a brook,
Now stones roll and tumble,
Hear the duty you forsook
In a world-wide rumble.

Fear, but pray, you anxious soul,
While your mem'ries meet you!
Thus go on; the perfect whole
On the top shall greet you.
Christ, Elijah, Moses, there
Wait your high endeavor.
Seeing them you'll know no care,
Bless your path forever.

Bjørnstjerne Martinius Bjørnson

Bjørnstjerne Martinius Bjørnson was a Norwegian writer and one of the four great Norwegian writers, along with Henrik Ibsen, Jonas Lie, and Alexander Kielland. Bjørnson is recognized for his pivotal role in Norwegian literature and his works contributing significantly to Norwegian national identity. He was awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature in 1903 and also wrote the lyrics to the Norwegian national anthem, 'Ja, vi elsker dette landet'. Bjørnson was an influential figure in Norway's cultural and political life during his lifetime.

Bjørnstjerne Martinius Bjørnson

To A Godson (1861)

Bjørnstjerne Martinius Bjørnson, Simple Poetry

Those With Me

Bjørnstjerne Martinius Bjørnson, Simple Poetry

Question And Answer

Bjørnstjerne Martinius Bjørnson, Simple Poetry

To Erika Lie

Bjørnstjerne Martinius Bjørnson, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

Explore a curated selection of verses that share themes, styles, and emotional resonance with the poem you've just read.

Over The Lofty Mountains (From Arne)

(See Note)

Wonder I must, what I once may see
Over the lofty mountains!
Eyes shall meet only snow, may be;
Standing here, each evergreen tree
Over the heights is yearning; -
Will it be long in learning?

Pinions strong bear the eagle away
Over the lofty mountains
Forth to the young and vigorous day;
There he exults in the swift, wild play,
Rests where his spirit orders, -
Sees all the wide world's borders.

Full-leaved the apple-tree wishes naught
Over the lofty mountains!
Spreading, when summer hither is brought,
Waiting till next time in its thought;
Many a bird it is swinging,
Knowing not what they are singing.

He who has longed for twenty years
Over the lofty mountains,
He who knows that he never nears,
S...

Bjørnstjerne Martinius Bjørnson

To Molde

(See Note 64)

    Molde, Molde,
    True as a song,
Billowy rhythms whose thoughts fill with love me,
Follow thy form in bright colors above me,
    Bear thy beauty along.
Naught is so black as thy fjord, when storm-lashes
Sea-salted scourge it and inward it dashes,
Naught is so mild as thy strand, as thine islands,
    Ah, as thine islands!
Naught is so strong as thy mountain-linked ring,
Naught is so sweet as thy summer-nights bring.
    Molde, Molde,
    True as a song,
    Murm'ring memories throng.

    Molde, Molde,
    Flower-o'ergrown,
Houses and gardens where good friends wander!
Hundreds of miles away, - but I'm yonder
    'Mid the roses full-blown.
Strong shines the sun on that mountain-rimmed beauty,
Fast is the ...

Bjørnstjerne Martinius Bjørnson

Per Bo (1878)

Once I knew a noble peasant
From a line of men large-hearted.
Light and strength were in his mind,
Lifted like a peak clear-lined
O'er the valley in spring sunshine,
First to feel the morning's beam,
First refreshed by cloud-born stream.

Wide the springtime spread its banner,
Waving in his will illumined,
Bright with promise, color-sound;
Heritage of toil its ground.
Round that mountain music floated,
Songsters sweet of faith and hope
Nestled on its tree-clad slope.

Sometime, sometime all the valley
Like him shall with light be flooded;
Sometime all his faith and truth
Sunward grow in dewy youth,
And the dreams he dreamt too early
Live and make him leader be
For a race as true as he.

Bjørnstjerne Martinius Bjørnson

The Hills.

Behind my father's cottage lies
    A gentle grassy height
Up which I often ran--to gaze
    Back with a wondering sight,
For then the chimneys I thought high
    Were down below me quite!

All round, where'er I turned mine eyes,
    Huge hills closed up the view;
The town 'mid their converging roots
    Was clasped by rivers two;
From, one range to another sprang
    The sky's great vault of blue.

It was a joy to climb their sides,
    And in the heather lie!
A joy to look at vantage down
    On the castle grim and high!
Blue streams below, white clouds above,
    In silent earth and sky!

And now, where'er my feet may roam,
    At sight of stranger hill
A new sense of the old delight
    Springs in my bosom still,

George MacDonald

To Erika Lie

(See Note 43)

    When Norse nature's dower
    Tones will paint with power,
There is more than mountain-heights that tower, -
    Plains spread wide-extending,
    Whereon at their wending
Summer nights soft dews are sending.

    Forests great are growing,
    And in long waves going
Glommen's valley fill to overflowing, -
    There are green slopes vernal,
    Glad with joy fraternal,
Open to the light supernal.

    For revealing wholly
    All things fine and holy -
As in sunshine birds are soaring slowly,
    Or, their spells transmitting,
    Northern Lights are flitting, -
None but maiden-hands are fitting.

    Your hands came, and playing,
    O'er their secrets straying
Picture after picture are p...

Bjørnstjerne Martinius Bjørnson

Romsdal


(See Note 69)

Come up on deck! The morning is clear, -
Memory wakes, as the landmarks appear.
How many the islands, green and cheery,
The salt-licking skerries, weed-wound, smeary!
On this side, on that side, they frolic before us,
Good friends, but wild, - in frightened chorus
Sea-fowl shriek round us, a flying legion.
We are in a region
Of storms historic, unique for aye.

We fare the fishermen's venturesome way!
Far out the bank and the big fish shoaling,
The captain narrates; and just now unrolling
Sails run to shore a swift racing match; -
Good is the catch.

Yes, yes, - I recognize them again,
Romsdal's boats' weather-beaten men.
They know how to sail, when need's at hand.

But I'm forgetting to look towards la...

Bjørnstjerne Martinius Bjørnson