When Comes The Morning?

(FROM IN GOD'S WAY)
(See Note 77)

When comes the real morning?
When golden, the sun's rays hover
Over the earth's snow-cover,
And where the shadows nestle,
Wrestle,
Lifting lightward the root enringèd
Till it shall seem an angel wingèd,
Then it is morning,
Real, real morning.
    But if the weather is bad
    And my spirit sad,
    Never morning I know.
    No.

Truly, it's real morning,
When blossom the buds winter-beaten,
The birds having drunk and eaten
Are glad as they sing, divining
Shining
Great new crowns to the tree-tops given,
Cheering the brooks to the broad ocean riven.
Then it is morning,
Real, real morning.
    But if the weather is bad
    And my spirit sad,
    Never morning I know.
    No.

When comes the real morning?
When power to conquer parries
Sorrow and storm, and carries
Sun to the soul, whose burning
Yearning
Opens in love and calls to others:
Good to be unto all as brothers.
Then it is morning,
Real, real morning.
    Greatest power you know
    - And most dangerous, lo! -
    Will you this then possess?
    Yes.

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

Alone And Repentant (To A Friend Since Deceased)

Bjørnstjerne Martinius Bjørnson, Simple Poetry

Magnus The Blind (From Sigurd Slembe)

Bjørnstjerne Martinius Bjørnson, Simple Poetry

A Meeting

Bjørnstjerne Martinius Bjørnson, Simple Poetry

English

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The Poet

(See Note 72)

The poet does the prophet's deeds;
In times of need with new life pregnant,
When strife and suffering are regnant,
His faith with light ideal leads.
The past its heroes round him posts,
He rallies now the present's hosts,
        The future opes
        Before his eyes,
        Its pictured hopes
        He prophesies.
    Ever his people's forces vernal
    The poet frees, - by right eternal.

He turns the people's trust to doubt
Of heathendom and Moloch-terror;
'Neath thought of God, cold-gray with error,
He sees grow green each fresh, new sprout.
Set free, these spread abroad, above,
Bear fruit of power and of love
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Bjørnstjerne Martinius Bjørnson

Good-Morning (From The Fisher Maiden)

Day's coming up now, joy's returned,
Sorrow's dark cloud-castles captured and burned;
Over the mountain-tops glowing
Light-king his armies is throwing.
"Up now, up now!" calls the bird,
"Up now, up now!" child-voice heard,
Up now my hope in sunshine. "

Bjørnstjerne Martinius Bjørnson

In A Heavy Hour

(See Note 13)

Be glad when danger presses
Each power your soul possesses!
In greater strain
Your strength shall gain,
Till greater vict'ry blesses!
Supports may break in pieces,
Your friends may have caprices,
But you shall see,
The end will be,
Your need of crutches ceases.
    - 'T is clear,
Whom God makes lonely,
To him He comes more near.

Bjørnstjerne Martinius Bjørnson

Ivar Ingemundson's Lay (From Sigurd Slembe)

(See Note 15)

Wherefore have I longings,
When to live them strength is lacking?
And wherefore see I,
If I see but sorrow?

Flight of my eye to the great and distant
Dooms it to gales of darkening doubt;
But fleeing backward to the present,
It's prisoned in pain and pity.

For I see a land with no leader,
I see a leader with no land.
The land how heavy-laden
The leader how high his longing!

Might the men but know it,
That he is here among them!
But they see a man in fetters,
And leave him to lie there.

Round the ship a storm is raging,
At the rudder stands a fool. Who can save it?
He, who below the deck is longing,
Half-dead and in fetters.

(Looking upward)

Hear how they call Thee
And co...

Bjørnstjerne Martinius Bjørnson

Oh, When Will You Stand Forth?

(See Note 59)

Oh, when will you stand forth, who with strength can bring aid,
To strike down the injustice and lies
That my house have beset, and with malice blockade
Every pathway I out for my powers have laid,
And would hidden means find
With deceit and with hate
To set watch on my mind
And defile every plate
In my beautiful home where defenseless we wait?

Oh, when will you stand forth? This detraction through years
For my people has made me an oaf,
Hides my poetry's fount in the fog of its fleers,
So it merely a pool of self-worship appears;
Like a clumsy troll I
Am contemned with affront,
Whom all "cultured" folk fly,
Or yet gather to hunt,
That their hunger of hate at a feast they may blunt.

When I publish a book: "It is h...

Bjørnstjerne Martinius Bjørnson

A Sigh

Evening sunshine never
Solace to my window bears,
Morning sunshine elsewhere fares; -
Here are shadows ever.

Sunshine freely falling,
Wilt thou not my chamber find?
Here some rays would reach a mind,
'Mid the dark appalling.

Morning sunshine's gladness,
Oh, thou art my childhood bright;
While thou playest pure and white,
I would weep in sadness.

Evening sunshine's whiling,
Oh, thou art the wise man's rest; -
Farther on! Then from the west
Greet my window smiling!

Morning sunshine's singing,
Oh, thou art the fantasy
That the sun-glad world lifts free,
Past my powers' winging.

Evening sunshine's quiet,
Thou art more than wisdom's rest,
Christian faith glows in thee blest:
Calm my soul...

Bjørnstjerne Martinius Bjørnson