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182 POEMS AND SONGS
Flowers spring from his giving
Over all Norway’s lap.
Flowers spring forth, though stony
The ground where it fell, and cold.
Never did patrimony
Bear fruitage so many fold.
Heed this, Norwegian peasant,
Heed it, you townsman, too!
That fruit of love’s seed may be present,
Our thanks must fall fresh as dew.
“Here your Hamar-made matches!”
My thanks kindle fast. And oh!
This song at your heart-strings catches,
That kindling your thanks may glow.
The matches hold them in hiding, —
Scratching one you will find
The light with a warmth abiding
Carries them to his mind.
“Here your Hamar-made matches!”
Only to strike one here,
Our thanks far-away dispatches,
With peace his fair home to cheer.
His matches in thousands of houses,
In great and in small as well!—
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