Bjørnstjerne Bjørnson (8 December 1832 – 26 April 1910 / Kvikne)
You never came here; but I go
Here often and am met by you.
Each room and road here must renew
The thought of you and your form show
Standing with helpful hand extended,
As when long since in trust and deed
My home you from my foes defended.
So often, while I wrote this book,
The light shone from your genial eye;
Then we were one, both you and I
And what in silence being took;
So here and there the book possesses
Your spirit and your heart's fresh faith,
And therefore now your name it blesses.
I love the air, when growing colder
It, clear and high,
The purer sky
Broadens with sense of freedom bolder.
I find in forests joy the keenest
In autumn days
When fancy plays,
And not when they are young and greenest.
I knew a man: in autumn clearness
His even course,-
His heart's fine force
Like autumn sky in soft-hued sheerness.
His memory is, as-when a-swarming
The cold blasts first
Of winter burst-
The gentle flame my room first warming.
When all our outward longings falter,
And summer's mind
Within we find,
Is friendship's feast round autumn's altar.
Comments about this poem (Frederik Hegel by Bjørnstjerne Bjørnson )
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