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ROMSDAL 193
The captain narrates; and just now unrolling
Sails run to shore a swift racing match;—
Good is the catch.
Yes, yes,—I recognize them again,
Romsdal’s boats’ weather-beaten men.
They snow how to sail, when need’s at hand.
But I’m forgetting to look towards land!
— — — It whelms the sight
Like lightning bright,—
In memory graven, but not so great.
Wherever I suffer my eyes to wander,
Stand mountain-giants, both here and yonder,
The loin of one by the other’s shoulder,
Naught else to where earth and sky are blending.
The dread of a world’s din daunts the beholder;
The silence vastens the vision unending.
Some are in white and others in blue,
With pointed tops that emulous tower;
Some mass their power,
In marching columns their purpose pursue.
Away, you small folk!—In there “* The Preacher”
In high assembly the service intoning
Of magnates primeval, their patriarch owning!
Of what does he preach, my childhood’s teacher?
So often, so often to him I listened,
In eager worship, devout and lowly;
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