Question And Answer

    THE CHILD

Father! Within the forest's bound
No bird I found,
No sound of song the woods around.


    THE FATHER

The bird that glad his song us gave,
Flies o'er the wave;
Perhaps he there will find his grave.


    THE CHILD

But why does he not wait till later?


    THE FATHER

He goes where light and warmth are greater


    THE CHILD

Father! It selfish seems to me,
Far off to flee,
When all we others here must be.


    THE FATHER

With new-born spring comes new-born song;
By instinct strong
The better new he'll bring erelong.


    THE CHILD

But if in death the cold waves swallow - ?


    THE FATHER

Others will come; his kin will follow.

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

Ballad Of Tailor Nils (From Arne)

Bjørnstjerne Martinius Bjørnson, Simple Poetry

Bergliot

Bjørnstjerne Martinius Bjørnson, Simple Poetry

At Hansteen's Bier (1873)

Bjørnstjerne Martinius Bjørnson, Simple Poetry

To Erika Lie

Bjørnstjerne Martinius Bjørnson, Simple Poetry

English

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The Child In Our Soul

Toward God in heaven spacious
With artless faith a boy looks free,
As toward his mother gracious,
And top of Christmas-tree.
But early in the storm of youth
There wounds him deep the serpent's tooth;
His childhood's faith is doubted
And flouted.

Soon stands in radiant splendor
With bridal wreath his boyhood's dream;
Her loving eyes and tender
The light of heaven's faith stream.
As by his mother's knee of yore
God's name he stammers yet once more,
The rue of tears now paying
And praying.

When now life's conflict stirring
Leads him along through doubtings wild,
Then upward points unerring
Close by his side his child.
With children he a child is still
And whatsoe'er his heart may chill,
Prayer for his son is warming,

Bjørnstjerne Martinius Bjørnson

To My Father (Upon His Retirement)

(See Note 42)

In all the land our race was once excelling.
In richer regions it e'en now possesses
Broad seats and fruitful; but by fate's hard stresses
Our branch was bent and bowed to blows compelling.
Now toward the light again it lifts aloft
Its top, and fresh buds crown it, fair and soft.
The flowing fountain of your faith has laved it,
To life's late evening thus your strength has saved it.

As rests the race in time of chill and rigor,
And from the deeps that lie within its being
Draws to it what alone can nourish, freeing
Its powers to full prophecy of vigor, -
So I divined the unseen stir in you
Of nature's might that you could not subdue;
It was so strong, from sire to son surviving,
In mystery mute descends this power's stri...

Bjørnstjerne Martinius Bjørnson

Johan Ludvig Heiberg (1860)

(See Note 7)

To the grave they bore him sleeping,
Him the aged, genial gardener;
Now the children gifts are heaping
From the flower-bed he made.

There the tree that he sat under,
And the garden gate is open,
While we cast a glance and wonder
Whether some one sits there still.

He is gone. A woman only
Wanders there with languid footsteps,
Clothed in black and now so lonely,
Where his laughter erst rang clear.

As a child when past it going,
Through the fence she looked with longing,
Now great tears so freely flowing
Are her thanks that she came in.

Fairy-tales and thoughts high-soaring
Whispered to him 'neath the foliage.
She flits softly, gathering, storing
Them as solace for her woe.

***

F...

Bjørnstjerne Martinius Bjørnson

A Mystery Play

CHARACTERS

The Father. The Child. Death. Angels.
        Two Travellers.

    *    *    *    *    *

The even settles still and deep,
In the cold sky the last gold burns,
Across the colour snow flakes creep.
Each one from grey to glory turns
Then flutters into nothingness;
The frost down falls with mighty stress
Through the swift cloud that parts on high;
The great stars shrivel into less
In the hard depth of the iron sky.

    *    *    *    *    *

The Child:

What is that light, dear father,
That light in the dark, dark sky?


The Father:

Those are the lights of the city
And the villages thereby.


The Child:

There must be fire in the city

Duncan Campbell Scott

Songs Of The Winter Nights

    I.

    Back shining from the pane, the fire
    Seems outside in the snow:
    So love set free from love's desire
    Lights grief of long ago.

    The dark is thinned with snow-sheen fine,
    The earth bedecked with moon;
    Out on the worlds we surely shine
    More radiant than in June!

    In the white garden lies a heap
    As brown as deep-dug mould:
    A hundred partridges that keep
    Each other from the cold.

    My father gives them sheaves of corn,
    For shelter both and food:
    High hope in me was early born,
    My father was so good.


    II.

    The frost weaves ferns and sultry palms
    Across my clouded pane;
    Weaves melodies of ancient psalms
    All through my...

George MacDonald

The Suicide

    "Curse thee, Life, I will live with thee no more!
    Thou hast mocked me, starved me, beat my body sore!
    And all for a pledge that was not pledged by me,
    I have kissed thy crust and eaten sparingly
    That I might eat again, and met thy sneers
    With deprecations, and thy blows with tears,--
    Aye, from thy glutted lash, glad, crawled away,
    As if spent passion were a holiday!
    And now I go.    Nor threat, nor easy vow
    Of tardy kindness can avail thee now
    With me, whence fear and faith alike are flown;
    Lonely I came, and I depart alone,
    And know not where nor unto whom I go;
    But that thou canst not follow me I know."

    Thus I to Life, and ceased; but through my brain
    My thought ran still, until I spake again:<...

Edna St. Vincent Millay