In the forest

List to the forest-voice murmuring low:
All that it saw when alone with its laughter,
All that it suffered in times that came after,
Mournful it tells, that the wind may know.

poem by Bjørnstjerne Bjørnson
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Love Thy Neighbor

Love thy neighbor, to Christ be leal!
Crush him never with iron-heel,
Though in the dust he's lying!
All the living responsive await
Love with power to recreate,
Needing alone the trying.

poem by Bjørnstjerne Bjørnson
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The first meeting

The first fond meeting holy
Is like the woodbirds' trilling,
Is like a sea-song thrilling,
When red the sun sinks slowly,-
Is like a horn on mountain,
That wakes time's sleep thereunder
And summons to life's fountain
To meet in nature's wonder.

poem by Bjørnstjerne Bjørnson
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The Dove

I saw a dove fear-daunted,

By howling storm-blast driven;
Where waves their power vaunted,

From land it had been riven.
No cry nor moan it uttered,

I heard no plaint repeated;
In vain its pinions fluttered —

It had to sink, defeated.

poem by Bjørnstjerne Bjørnson, translated by Arthur Hubbell Palmer
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Good Morning

Day's coming up now, joy's returned,
Sorrow's dark cloud-castles captured and burned;
Over the mountain-tops glowing
Light-king his armies is throwing.
'Up now, up now!' calls the bird,
'Up now, up now!' child-voice heard,
Up now my hope in sunshine. '

poem by Bjørnstjerne Bjørnson
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For A Charity Fair

Some poor man in need
To bless and to feed,
I bring at its worth,
This day of my birth,
A book,-from my youth I must own.
But Who in His power
Gave bud and gave flower,
To bread can transform
In want's winter-storm
Each leaf that my Springtime has grown.

poem by Bjørnstjerne Bjørnson
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In a heavy hour

Be glad when danger presses
Each power your soul possesses!
In greater strain
Your strength shall gain,
Till greater vict'ry blesses!
Supports may break in pieces,
Your friends may have caprices,
But you shall see,
The end will be,
Your need of crutches ceases.
-'T is clear,
Whom God makes lonely,
To him He comes more near.

poem by Bjørnstjerne Bjørnson
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Choice

April for me I choose!
In it the old things tumble,
In it things new refresh us;
It makes a mighty rumble,-
But peace is not so precious
As that his will man shows.

April for me I choose,
Because it storms and scourges,
Because it smiles and blesses,
Because its power purges,
Because it strength possesses,-

In it the summer grows.

poem by Bjørnstjerne Bjørnson
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Lambkin Mine

Kille, kille, lambkin mine,
Though it often be hard to climb
Over the rocks upswinging,
Follow thy bell's sweet ringing!

Kille, kille, lambkin mine,
Take good care of that fleece-coat thine!
Sewed to one and another,
Warm it shall keep my mother.

Kille, kille, lambkin mine,
Feed and fatten thy flesh so fine!
Know, you dear little sinner,
Mother will have it for dinner!

poem by Bjørnstjerne Bjørnson
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The Call

Come calf now to mother,
Come lamb that I choose,
Come cats, one and t' other,
With snowy-white shoes,
Come gosling all yellow,
Come forth with your fellow,
Come chickens so small,
Scarce walking at all,
Come doves, that are mine now,
With feathers so fine now!
The grass is bedewed,
The sunlight renewed,
It's early, early, summer's advancing
But autumn soon comes a-dancing!

poem by Bjørnstjerne Bjørnson
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