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

58
For him the bird is a valued guest;
He plunders the very last scrap from the nest,
Before he abandons the reef he’s stripped
He sees the last feather is safely shipped.
But deep in its bosom the bird can find
A spark of sheer love that is warm and kind,
It plucks the fine, delicate down from its breast
And fashions once more a cosy nest.
And though that is plundered, yet it will look
To build a new nest in some hidden nook, —
It plucks from its breast the last feather — in vain,
Not knowing the fisherman’s near again.
But should he steal the last treasure left,
The eider despairs, of all hope bereft,
With nought but a bleeding breast to boast,
It pines away on that barren coast. —
It’s not so wealthy, the human breast!
It too will fashion a cosy nest,
Will line it with care and make pretty its floor
With blooms from the soul’s most intimate store.
Yet plundered but once in its secretive site,
Its soul is enshrouded in endless night,
Its energies fail and its confident zest,
It’s left with no more than a bleeding breast.
Brynjolf Bjarme
FOR DENMARK
A sombre message quivered
Its warning through our times,
The hum of war delivered
Its threat to Northern climes;
Each sleep-dulled Power, lack-lustre,
Found sap and enterprise,
The cause, a Vigrid-muster
Where Denmark’s bastions rise.
And Denmark’s old defences
In time of strife held out,
The ancient North now senses
Its strong-walled church is stout,
With solemn aisles and apses,
Bold vaulting that soars forth;
It, till the North collapses,
Personifies the North.