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

47
THE SWAN
When the mist autumns bring
And white winters embalm
The whole North in their bleak, chilling sway,
On a shore bathed in Spring
‘Neath the sheltering palm
There the swan builds a nest for its stay.
Nature’s rich there and breeds
A live freshness withal,
There’s no wintery shrouding of snow;
Behind billowing reeds
Like a sheltering wall
There’s a haven from winds that may blow.
In a delicate sheet
Water-lilies o’er-spread
The light ripples with scent wafted forth;
There its slumber is sweet,
There it waits to be sped
By the summons of Spring to the North.
O, but can’t you believe
That its longing might stray,
In a solacing dream now fly hence?
Can you not, then, conceive
That its lightning-swift way
O’er the cloud seeks the home it can sense?
Then Spring’s sun played its role
And it took its farewell
Of its winter-home’s springlike array,
To salute its own fell
Near the ice-covered Pole
With its cold and familiar display.
Many flower-clad shores
On its dizzying flight
It saw smilingly beckon below;
There the sea never roars,
Yet, disdaining the sight,
It flew North like a shaft from the bow.
From the blue hazy band
Lofty ridges appear;
O, its longing for home is so strong!
That familiar strand
And the home it holds dear,
It will greet with a passionate song.