Mohammed-like Sovereign, the world hasn’t seen,
Aware of each divine secret, he has been,
Subtle are the words, regarding the Apostle’s Ascent,
Speak not; all speech here appears but lean.
In the orchard, the wind blows but for Thee,
The music of nightingale flows but for Thee,
Each object mirrors they Majesty and Magnificence,
Each flower I smell, mellows but for Thee.
Wherefore ever ramble on?
For the Good is lying near,
Fortune learn to seize alone,
For that Fortune's ever here.
Hum aaj punah aikatrit hain
Adhyapak divas manaane ko
Hain bahut rinni hum guruyon ke
Yah aadambar dikhlane ko
Paa Kampens Dag, da Danmarks Helte faldt,
Dit danske Hjerte gjorde dig til Skjald.
— Dit Vid os sang mod Livets bittre Suk:
„Min Søn, vil Du i Verden frem, saa buk."
I Haven voxer Æbletræet smukt,
Men der maa Solskin til at skabe Frugt,
I Skyggen her dit Blomster Duft os gav,
— Men ingen saae Dig, Du kun fandt en Grav.
Fra Strængene flyver en Fuglehær,
Den synger med Hjerte og Tunge;
Vi Hjerteslaget fornemmer i hver;
Thi griber det Gamle og Unge.
Min Tak er saa ringe, en fattig Sang,
Men tro mig, den ogsaa har Hjerte-Klang.
Den muntre Skjald i Muld er gjemt,
Hans Strængeleeg staaer reent forglemt;
Gjør den igjen for Støvet fri,
Endnu er' Tonerne deri.
If you in the village think that my work was a good one,
Who closed the saloons and stopped all playing at cards,
And haled old Daisy Fraser before Justice Arnett,
In many a crusade to purge the people of sin;
Why do you let the milliner's daughter Dora,
And the worthless son of Benjamin Pantier,
Nightly make my grave their unholy pillow?
The Swan of Avon died-the Swan
Of Sacramento'll soon be gone;
And when his death-song he shall coo,
Stand back, or it will kill you too.
