Har Sydens Flamme ei dit Bryst med Sødhed tændt,
Saa digt og syng til Straf en Serenade hjemme: -
Faa Kys om Dagen af en iiskold Recensent,
Og Vægterfavnetag om Natten for din Stemme! -

I Graven gjemmes vor Jordlivs Kjole,
Naar vi gjør Reisen til andre Sole!

Hvor Luther talte og hvor Goethe sang,
I Nabolandet gik din Vuggegænge,
Hvor Bølgen bruser høit om Dannevang,
Dig blomstre Livets Rose frisk og længe!

I found an orchid in the valley fair,
And named it for us both,
And left it there.
Two flowers upon one stem, white-souled, alone.
I couldn't pull them up,
And bring them home.

XIV
I found a few old letters of mine carefully hidden in thy box—a few small toys for thy memory to play with. With a timorous heart thou didst try to steal these trifles from the turbulent stream of time which washes away planets and stars, and didst say, “These are only mine!” Alas, there is no one now who can claim them—who is able to pay their price; yet they are still here. Is there no love in this world to rescue thee from utter loss, even like this love of thine that saved these letters with such fond care?

I feel horrible. She doesn't
love me and I wander around
like a sewing machine
that's just finished sewing
a turd to a garbage can lid.

I have a heart broken and destitute;
I fear to show her that.
If she sees ever, she may turn her face back
and forget me for good.

[Translated from Bengali by the poet]

I faint, I perish with my love! I grow
Frail as a cloud whose [splendours] pale
Under the evening's ever-changing glow:
I die like mist upon the gale,
And like a wave under the calm I fail

Ved Planterne og deres gamle Venskab,
Kom stundom mig, en yngre Ven, ihu
Der — skjøndt et flygtigt Blik og kort Bekjendtskab
Dog lærte snart at elske dem, som Du -

Mad day flags crackling in the dawn the sharp intensity of drink dentelleries thrown over the mill fire sun and candlelight and at midnight I squeeze the juice of the silver fruit of the moon into the red glass of my heart. I drink to the Sun who lies concealed in his bed under the sheets of night. In the morning he will rise like a Red Indian to run his marathon across the sky.