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

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Ulrikken, the highest of the mountains overlooking Bergen — a favourite spot for walking; the
giants, deadly foes to the gods, who were turned to stone if the sun shone upon them;
Følgefonn, a glacier on the far-distant Hardanger range; dwarfs, the technicians, so to speak,
to the gods — skilled miners and smiths, timorous yet capable of malice; Bjørgvin, the ancient
form of Bergen; the German quay, one of the wharfs; southern fruits — a playful pomposity
for oranges. Rikke Holst was one of the party.
Another poem inspired by Rikke Holst.
TO MY PRIMROSE
Dearest of blooms with your fragrance of petal,
Brief as a dream was your flowering’s bright mirth, —
Sad, — for the dew-drop can no longer settle
Bathing the calyx bowed sere to the earth.
Deep in the heart, I am told, of a bloom,
Elves there disport them on butterfly-winging, —
Snap but the stem — then a tremor, a tinging
Faint as a sigh sounds the elfin-folk’s doom!
Yet in my beautiful bloom there’s one elf,
Like to a bird on its nest, still remaining;
Elf of Remembrance — I’ll pleasure myself
With its sad reverie, dream-like complaining; —
Here in my silent, my solitary home
Dreams and dear visions come visit me, fleeting,
Voices that whisper a spring-zephyr greeting
Oft from the silence I conjure to roam.
— Soon I’m forgotten, yet though winter’s night
Weigh like a tomb on my joy, there’s renewal —
Then I’ll in Memory’s treasure delight,
Faithfully hoarding my bloom as its jewel!
TO R.H!
Henr. Ibsen
Ah, I know a lovely land,
Star-like, distant yonder, —
Steering for its blossomed strand
Blissfully I wander;
There a song wafts slope and breeze,
There, green groves past number,
There the evening primrose frees
Scent that sweetens slumber.