Forests great are growing,
And in long waves going
Glommen's valley fill to overflowing,--
There are green slopes vernal,
Glad with joy fraternal,
Open to the light supernal.
For revealing wholly
All things fine and holy--
As in sunshine birds are soaring slowly,
Or, their spells transmitting,
Northern Lights are flitting,--
None but maiden-hands are fitting.
_Your_ hands came, and playing,
O'er their secrets straying
Picture after picture are portraying,
As the poet dreamed them,
In soul-travail teemed them,
Till your artist hands redeemed them.
Now their light far-flinging
We see flashing, swinging,
Sparks as from your father's humor springing;
Now there meets us nigher,
Mirroring the higher,
Mother's eye of softer fire.
Child-heart tones are holding
All our minds and molding,
So its faith the wide world is enfolding,
While your sweet sounds sally,
Truth to tell and rally,
Maiden blonde from Glommen's valley.
+
AT MICHAEL SARS'S GRAVE
(See Note 44)
Ever he would roam
Toward th' eternal home;
From the least life deep in ocean
To each gleam of stars in motion,
Worth of all he weighed.
Now the Lord lends aid.
Still he passed beyond,
Softly dreaming; fond
Nature met him as her lover.
Pages:
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100