Bjørnstjerne Bjørnson (8 December 1832 – 26 April 1910 / Kvikne)

… O'er uplands fresh swift sped my sleigh…
A light snow fell; along the way
Stood firs and birches slender.
The former pondered deep, alone,
The latter laughed, their white boughs shone;-
All brings a picture tender.

So light and free is now the air;
Of all its burdens stripped it bare
The snow with playful sally.
I glimpse behind its veil so thin
A landscape gay, and high within
A snow-peak o'er the valley.

But from the border white and brown,
Where'er I look, there's peeping down
A face… but whose, whose is it?
I bore my gaze 'neath cap and brim
And see the snowflakes swarm and swim;-
Will some one here me visit?

A star fell on my glove… right here…
And here again… its unlike peer;…
They will with riddles pose me.
And smiles that in the air abound
From eyes so good… I look around…
'T is memory besnows me.

The stars spin fine their filigree,
Can hidden spirits in it be?
There haunts me something awing…
You finer birch, you snow unstained,
You purer air,-a soul you've gained?
Who is it here now drawing

His features dear in nature's face,
In all this fascinating grace,
In falling stars that cheat me,-
In these white gleams that finely glance,
In all this silent rhythmic dance?…
Hans Brecke!-comes to meet me.