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ARNLJOT GELLINE
Far out to the sea reaches forth my spirit,
The sea, that knows not an hour’s appeasement!
For all who sigh, ’t is the sure deliverer;
But bears its own riddle forever onward,
Keeping with death this pact mysterious,
That all it gives him, save itself only!
I am urged, O sea, by thy melancholy,
To cast aside all my weary scheming,
And let take flight all my anxious longings:
Thy cold waters shall lave my bosom.
Let death come, for his prey low-lurking:
A space is left us still for our playing!
Some hours [ll filch from thy covetous keeping
Cleaving onward in angry passion,
Thou shalt but fill my straining mainsail
With thy tempest-breath of destruction,
Thy raging billows shall bear more swiftly
My little craft into quiet waters.
What if I stand alone at the rudder,
Forsaken by all, and by death forgotten,
Watching stranger sails from the distance wafted,
And others gliding by in the night-time,
What if alone I list to the ground-swell,
—The sigh of the ocean, its breath deep-drawing —
To its waves as they ripple against the timbers
—In pastime relieving its melancholy !
Then shall be washed away my longings,
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