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To Molde
By Bjørnstjerne Martinius Bjørnson
(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!
Extra Info:
TRANSLATED FROM THE NORWEGIAN IN THE ORIGINAL METERS BY ARTHUR HUBBELL PALMER
Professor of the German Language and Literature In Yale University
Note 64.
TO MOLDE. This poem, begun in 1878, was finished the next year in
Copenhagen. Björnson attended a school in Molde from his eleventh
to his eighteenth year. The varied beauty, not too grand and not
too somber, of the scenery about Molde left on him indelible
impressions.
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