The Maiden On The Shore

She wandered so young on the shore around,
Her thoughts were by naught on earth now bound.
Soon came there a painter, his art he plied
    Above the tide,
    In shadow wide, -
He painted the shore and herself beside.

More slowly she wandered near him around,
Her thoughts by a single thing were bound.
And this was his picture wherein he drew
    Herself so true,
    Herself so true,
Reflected in ocean with heaven's blue.

All driven and drawn far and wide around
Her thoughts now by everything were bound.
Far over the ocean, - and yet most dear
    The shore right here,
    The man so near,
Did ever the sunshine so bright appear!

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

Sin, Death (From Sigurd Slembe)

Bjørnstjerne Martinius Bjørnson, Simple Poetry

The Ocean (From Arnljot Gelline)

Bjørnstjerne Martinius Bjørnson, Simple Poetry

Landfall

Bjørnstjerne Martinius Bjørnson, Simple Poetry

Our Language (1900)

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.

The Maiden On The Shore

She wandered so young on the shore around,
Her thoughts were by naught on earth now bound.
Soon came there a painter, his art he plied
    Above the tide,
    In shadow wide, -
He painted the shore and herself beside.

More slowly she wandered near him around,
Her thoughts by a single thing were bound.
And this was his picture wherein he drew
    Herself so true,
    Herself so true,
Reflected in ocean with heaven's blue.

All driven and drawn far and wide around
Her thoughts now by everything were bound.
Far over the ocean, - and yet most dear
    The shore right here,
    The man so near,
Did ever the sunshine so bright appear!

Bjørnstjerne Martinius Bjørnson

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 ...

Bjørnstjerne Martinius Bjørnson

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

At A Seaside Town In 1869 - Young Lover's Reverie

I went and stood outside myself,
Spelled the dark sky
And ship-lights nigh,
And grumbling winds that passed thereby.

Then next inside myself I looked,
And there, above
All, shone my Love,
That nothing matched the image of.

Beyond myself again I ranged;
And saw the free
Life by the sea,
And folk indifferent to me.

O 'twas a charm to draw within
Thereafter, where
But she was; care
For one thing only, her hid there!

But so it chanced, without myself
I had to look,
And then I took
More heed of what I had long forsook:

The boats, the sands, the esplanade,
The laughing crowd;
Light-hearted, loud
Greetings from some not ill-endowed;

The evening sunlit cliffs, the talk,
Hailings and halts...

Thomas Hardy

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

The Lock Of Hair.

It is in sooth a lovely tress,
    Still curled in many a ring,
As glossy as the plumes that dress
    The raven's jetty wing.
And the broad and soul-illumined brow,
    Above whose arch it grew,
Was like the stainless mountain snow,
    In its purity of hue.

I mind the time 'twas given to me,
    The night, the hour, the spot;
And the eye that pleaded silently,
    "Forget the giver not."
Oh! myriads of stars, on high,
    Were smiling sweetly fair,
But none was lovely as the eye
    That shone beside me there!

Above our heads an ancient oak
    Its strong, wide arms held out,
And from its roots a fountain broke,
    With a tiny laughing shout;
And the fairy people of the wild
    Were bending to their rest,
As trusti...

George W. Sands