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HOLGER DRACHMANN 199
In nature’s life and legend dreamy rest;
The former chide, the latter lures to dally.
Your songs sound, some as were a war-horn braying,
Some softly purl like streams on reedy strand.
Half nature-sprite and half as man you stand,
The two not yet one law of life obeying.
But as you seem and as yourself you are
(The faun’s love that the viking’s longing tinges),
We welcome you, no lock is left nor bar,—
You bring along the door and both the hinges.
Just this it is that we are needing now:
The spring, the spring! These stifling fumes we bear
Of royal incense and of monkish snuff,
Of corpses in romantic cloak and ruff,
Are bad for morals and for lungs: Fresh air!
Rather a draught of Songs Venetian, cheerful,
With southern wantonness and color-wonders,—
Rather ‘Two Shots” (although they make us fearful)
Against our shallow breeding and its blunders.
Spring’s herald, hail! come from the forest’s choir,
From ocean’s roar, from arméd hosts and grim!
Though sometimes carelessly you struck the lyre,—
Where rich growth is, one can the rank shoots trim.
The small trolls jeer the gestures of a giant,
I love you so,—unique and self-reliant.
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