The Melody (From Arne)

The youth in the woods spent the whole day long,
    The whole day long;
For there he had heard such a wonderful song,
    Wonderful song.

Willow-wood gave him a flute so fair,
    A flute so fair, -
To try, if within were the melody rare,
    Melody rare.

Melody whispered and said: "I am here!"
    Said: "I am here!"
But while he was listening, it fled from his ear,
    Fled from his ear.

Oft when he slept, it to him crept,
    It to him crept;
And over his forehead in love it swept,
    In love it swept.

When he would seize it, his sleep took flight,
    His sleep took flight;
The melody hung in the pallid night,
    In the pallid night.

"Lord, O my God, take me therein,
    Take me therein!
The melody rare all my soul doth win,
    My soul doth win."

Answered the Lord: "'T is your friend alone,
    Your friend alone;
Though never an hour you it shall own,
    You it shall own."

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

Daniel Schjötz

Bjørnstjerne Martinius Bjørnson, Simple Poetry

In A Heavy Hour

Bjørnstjerne Martinius Bjørnson, Simple Poetry

The Tryst

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 Day Of Sunshine (From Arne)

It was such a lovely sunshine-day,
The house and the yard couldn't hold me;
I roved to the woods, on my back I lay,
In cradle of fancy rolled me;
But there were ants, and gnats that bite,
The horse-fly was keen, the wasp showed fight.

"Dear me, don't you want to be out in this fine weather?" - said mother, who sat on the steps and sang.

It was such a lovely sunshine-day,
The house and the yard couldn't hold me;
A meadow I found, on my back I lay,
And sang what my spirit told me;
Then snakes came crawling, a fathom long,
To bask in the sun, - I fled with my song.

"In such blessed weather we can go barefoot," - said mother, as she pulled off her stockings.

It was such a lovely sunshine-day,
The house and the yard couldn't hold me;
I loose...

Bjørnstjerne Martinius Bjørnson

To A Lost Melody

Thou art not dead, O sweet lost melody,
    Sung beyond memory,
When golden to the winds this world of ours
    Waved wild with boundless flowers;
Sung in some past when wildernesses were,--
    Not dead, not dead, lost air!
Yet in the ages long where lurkest thou,
    And what soul knows thee now?
Wert thou not given to sweeten every wind
    From that o'erburdened mind
That bore thee through the young world, and that tongue
    By which thou first wert sung?
Was not the holy choir the endless dome,
    And nature all thy home?
Did not the warm gale clasp thee to his breast.
    Lulling thy storms to rest?
And is the June air laden with thee now,
    Passing the summer-bough?
And is the dawn-wind on a lonely sea
    Balmy with thoughts of thee?...

Alice Christiana Thompson Meynell

Synnove's Song (From Synnove Solbakken)

Have thanks for all from our childhood's day,
Our play together in woodland roaming.
I thought that play would go on for aye,
Though life should pass to its gloaming.

I thought that play would go on for aye,
From bowers leading of leafy birches
To where the Solbakke houses lay,
And where the red-painted church is.

I sat and waited through evenings long
And scanned the ridge with the spruces yonder;
But darkening mountains made shadows throng,
And you the way did not wander.

I sat and waited with scarce a doubt:
He'll dare the way when the sun's descended.
The light shone fainter, was nearly out,
The day in darkness had ended.

My weary eye is so wont to gaze,
To turn its look it is slow in learning;
No other landmark it seeks, ...

Bjørnstjerne Martinius Bjørnson

The Mother's Song (From Arne)

Lord! Oh, hold in Thy hand my child,
Guard by the river its playing!
Send Thou Thy Spirit as comrade mild,
Lest it be lost in its straying!
Deep is the water and false the ground.
Lord, if His arms shall the child surround,
Drowned it shall not be, but living,
Till Thou salvation art giving.

Mother, whom loneliness befalls,
Knowing not where it is faring,
Goes to the door, and its name there calls;
Breezes no answer are bearing.
This is her thought, that everywhere
He and Thou for it always care;
Jesus, its little brother,
Follows it home to mother.

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

To A Lost Melody

Thou art not dead, O sweet lost melody,
    Sung beyond memory,
When golden to the winds this world of ours
    Waved wild with boundless flowers;
Sung in some past when wildernesses were,-
    Not dead, not dead, lost air!
Yet in the ages long where lurkest thou,
    And what soul knows thee now?
Wert thou not given to sweeten every wind
    From that o'erburdened mind
That bore thee through the young world, and that tongue
    By which thou first wert sung?
Was not the holy choir the endless dome,
    And nature all thy home?
Did not the warm gale clasp thee to his breast.
    Lulling thy storms to rest?
And is the June air laden with thee now,
    Passing the summer-bough?
And is the dawn-wind on a lonely sea
    Balmy with thoughts of thee?<...

Alice Meynell