Schweigt, unberauschte, finstre Richter!
Ich trinke Wein, und bin ein Dichter.
Tut mir es nach, und trinket Wein,
So seht ihr meine Schoenheit ein.
Sonst wahrlich, unberauschte Richter,
Sonst wahrlich seht ihr sie nicht ein!

The leaves that in the lonely walks were spread,
Starting from off the ground beneath the tread,
Coursed o'er the garden-plain;
Thus, sometimes, 'mid the soul's deep sorrowings,
Our soul a moment mounts on wounded wings,
Then, swiftly, falls again.

When I am dead, I hope it may be said:
‘His sins were scarlet, but his books were read.’

Why do you rush through the fields in trains,
Guessing so much and so much.
Why do you flash through the flowery meads,
Fat-head poet that nobody reads;
And why do you know such a frightful lot
About people in gloves and such?

Facing my wine, I did not see the dusk,
Falling blossoms have filled the folds of my clothes.
Drunk, I rise and approach the moon in the stream,
Birds are far off, people too are few.

Tag jer i agt! hun er i Striid forfærdelig,
Hun saare eder vil — i det hun blotter sig. -

I know
Not these my hands
And yet I think there was
A woman like me once had hands
Like these.

Amagerbonden har hollandsk Blod,
Men han er dansk i sin Gulerod.

Alternative band
commercial suicidal
rocks like a demon

All the birds have flown up and gone;
A lonely cloud floats leisurely by.
We never tire of looking at each other -
Only the mountain and I.