Viggo Stuckenberg


Ak, Florenz, Florenz, alle dine Kampe!


Ak, Florenz, Florenz, alle dine Kampe!
Jeg kan dem udenad, de er forbi.
Jeg ræddes for den syge Fantasi,
der skaber dem paany af Arnos Dampe.

Der skinner i Fiesole en Lampe,
den bygger over Dalen mig en Sti
af hundredfoldig mere Poesi
end den, der i din Saga staar i Stampe.

Langt mere elsker jeg den Mandolin,
der klimprer løs hver Aftenstund i Gaden,
din Æselskryden og din sure Vin,

en Lygtes Blafren mod Paladsfacaden
og dine Bjærges sarte Taagelin
som nu, da Maanen stiger over Staden.

Submitted: Monday, June 25, 2012
Edited: Monday, June 25, 2012

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