-- How great it is! I can finish never. Great thoughts that in life and legend we treasure Stream towards the scene in persistent endeavor, The mighty impression to grasp and measure,-- Dame's hell, India's myth-panorama, Shakespeare's earth-overarching drama, Aeschylus' thunders that purge and free, Beethoven's powerful symphony,-- They widen and heighten, they cloud and brighten --Like small ants scrambling and soft-cooing doves, They tumble backward and flee affrighted;-- As if a dandy in dress-coat and gloves The mountains approached and to dance invited. No, tempt them not! Their retainer be! You'll learn then later, How life with the great must make you greater. If you are humble, they'll say it themselves, That something is greater than e'en their greatest. Look how the little river that delves High in the notch within limits straitest, Through ice first burrowed and stone, a brook, Slowly the giants asunder wearing! Unmoved before, their face now and bearing They had to change 'mid the spring-flood's laughter; Millions of years have followed thereafter, Millions of years it also took. In stamps the fjord now to look on their party, Lifts his sou'-wester, gives greeting to them. Whoever at times in their fog could view them Has seen him near to their very noses;-- The fjord's not famed for his well-bred poses. Towards him hurry, all white-foam-faced, Brooks and rivers in whirling haste, All of his family, frolicsome, naughty. If ever the mountains the fjord would immure, Their narrows press nigher, a prison sure;-- His water-hands then with a gesture haughty Seize the whole saucy pass like a shell; Set to his mouth, he begins to blow it With western-gale-lungs,--and then you may know it, Loud is the noise, and the swift currents swell. Forcing the coast, a big fjord, black and gray, Breaks us our way; Waterfalls rushing on both sides rumble. Sponge-wet and slow, Cloud-masses over the mountain-flanks fumble; The sun and mist, lo, Symbol of struggle eternal show. This is my Romsdal's unruly land! Home-love rejoices. All things I see, have eyes and have voices. The people? I know them, each man understand, Though never I saw him nor with him have spoken; I know this folk, for the fjord is their token. _One_ is the fjord in the storm's battle-fray, _Another_ is he when the sunbeams play In midsummer's splendor, And radiant, happy his heart is tender. Whatever has form, He bears on his breast with affection warm, Mirrors it, fondles it,-- Be it so bare as the mossy gray rubble, Be it so brief as a brook's fleeting bubble. Oh, what a brightness! Beauty, soul-ravishing, Shines from his prayer, that now he be shriven Of all the past! And penitence lavishing, All he confesses; with glad homage given Mirrors and masses Deep the mountains' high peaks and passes. The old giants think now: He's not really bad; In greater degree he's wrathful and glad Than others perchance; is false not at all, But reckless, capricious,--true son of Romsdal.