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 fight, let each man do his duty.
Friends, who your favor would never begrudge me,
    Gently now judge me! -
Only with life ends the fight for the right.
Thought flees to you for a refuge in light.
    Molde, Molde,
    Flower-o'ergrown,
    Childhood's memories' throne.

        Oh, may at last
    In thine embrace, life's fleeting
        Conflict past,
    Glad thine evening-glory greeting,
    - Where life let thought awaken, -
    My thought by death be taken!

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

Per Bo (1878)

Bjørnstjerne Martinius Bjørnson, Simple Poetry

The Spinner

Bjørnstjerne Martinius Bjørnson, Simple Poetry

Synnove's Song (From Synnove Solbakken)

Bjørnstjerne Martinius Bjørnson, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

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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

Norway, Norway

(See Note 76)

    Norway, Norway,
Rising in blue from the sea's gray and green,
Islands around like fledglings tender,
Fjord-tongues with slender,
Tapering tips in the silence seen.
    Rivers, valleys,
Mate among mountains, wood-ridge and slope
Wandering follow. Where the wastes lighten,
Lake and plain brighten
Hallow a temple of peace and hope.
    Norway, Norway,
Houses and huts, not castles grand,
    Gentle or hard,
    Thee we guard, thee we guard,
Thee, our future's fair land.

    Norway, Norway,
Glistening heights where skis swiftly go,
Harbors with fishermen, salts, and craftsmen,
Rivers and raftsmen,
Herdsmen and horns and the glacier-glow.
    Moors and meadows,
Runes in the woodlands, and wide-mown swaths,<...

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

Bergen

(See Note 19)

    As thou sittest there
    Skerry-bound and fair,
Mountains high around and ocean's deep before thee,
    On thee casts her spell
    Saga, that shall tell
Once again the wonders of our land.

    Honor is thy due,
    "Bergen never new,"
Ancient and unaging as thy Holberg's humor;
    Once kings sought thine aid, -
    Mighty now in trade, -
First to fly the flag of liberty.

    Oft in proud array,
    As a sunshine-day
Breaks forth from thy rain and fog wind-driven,
    Thou didst come with men
    Or great deeds again,
When the clouds were darkest o'er our land.

    Thy soul was the ground,
    Wit-enriched and sound,
Whence there sprang stout thoughts to make our country's harvest,

Bjørnstjerne Martinius Bjørnson

Norse Nature (In Ringerike During The Student Meeting Of 1869)

(See Note 39)

We wander and sing with glee
Of glorious Norway, fair to see.
Let sweetly the tones go twining
In colors so softly shining
On mountain, forest, fjord, and shore,
'Neath heaven's azure arching o'er.

The warmth of the nation's heart,
The depth, the strength, its songs impart,
Here opens its eyes to greet you,
Rejoicing just now to meet you,
And giving, grateful for the chance,
In love a self-revealing glance.

Here wakened our history first,
Here Halfdan dreamed of greatness erst,
In vision of hope beholding
The kingdom's future unfolding,
And Nore stood and summons gave,
While forth to conquest called the wave.

Here singing we must unroll
Of our dear land the pictured scroll!
Let calm turn to ...

Bjørnstjerne Martinius Bjørnson

To Aasmund Olafsen Vinje

(SUNG AT HIS WIFE'S GRAVE)
(See Note 48)

Your house to guests has shelter lent,
While you with pen were seated.
In silent quest they came and went,
You saw them not, nor greeted.
But when now they
Were gone away,
Your babe without a mother lay,
And you had lost your helpmate.

The home you built but yesterday
In death to-day is sinking,
And you stand sick and worn and gray
On ruins of your thinking.
Your way lay bare
Since child you were,
The shelter that you first could share
Was this that now is shattered.

But know, the guests that to you came
In sorrow's waste will meet you;
Though shy you shrink, they still will claim
The right with love to treat you.
For where you go
To you they show
The world in ra...

Bjørnstjerne Martinius Bjørnson