THE COLLECTED POEMS OF HENRIK IBSEN Translated by John ...

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Like a thousand ensigns fanning
When a calm alights,
See — young, tender pines are spanning
Moorland and the heights.
There’s a path through, wheresoever
It may chance to lead —
Anywhere, but homeward, never. —
Vent, the smoke-vent or chimney customarily adorned with greenery for the occasion.
THE SEAGULL’S CRY
On land and sea the outlook’s rough,
Bad weather southward too;
My Danish brother, sign enough
An evening storm is due.
Up here, from the Norwegian fjord
A flock of gulls compete
In soaring flight to spread abroad
A warning cry that, by the Lord,
Is more robust than sweet.
But ride, grey sea-bird, even so
The rack on Ran’s wild steed!
Scream out, scream out; ‘tis meet although
Your voice be harsh indeed!
‘Tis meet your cry should be so hoarse,
No dulcet minstrelsy;
The blind reefs break the billows’ force,
A rain-squall hither sets its course, —
Shriek, ‘tis your destiny!
You nightingale in Denmark’s wood,
Why are you vexed that trills
You uttered in yon regions should
Be lost mid pine-clad hills?
Here in the North you have no place,
Abroad your fostering,
By Norway’s fjords no kin can trace,
Nor did the glaciers e’er embrace
Your birthright in their ring.
Say, brother, have you heard aloft
The grebe when clouds hang grey; —
Has that a voice as trim and soft
As larks down Zealand way?
A thousand feet at least it sails
The height when Autumn’s due,