Trees of the Forest, You Know my Soul!
Poem
Hvíslar mér hlynur
hár í skógi
sögu sviplegri.
,,Óx mér við hlið
ei fyrir löngu
burkni blaðmjúkur.
Drakk hann að morgni
mungát nætur,
geisla um hádag heiðan;
hugði hann sól
og sumarástir
vara ævi alla.
Kom hinn haustkalda
hélugríma,
skalf þá veikstilka vinur:
,,Svikið hefur mig
sól í tryggðum.
Nú mun ég bana bíða.“
Brosti ég
að hans barnslyndi,
mundi ég eigin æsku.
Falla munu blöð þín
bleik til jarðar,
en víst mun stofn þinn standa.
Leið nótt,
lýsti nýr dagur,
huldi héla rjóður.
En vininn minn
veikstilka
sá ég aldrei aftur.“
Drúpir dimmviður
dökku höfði,
dagur er dauða nær.
Hrynja laufatár
litarvana
köldum af kvistsaugum.
Jóhann Sigurjónsson
The maple whispers
The maple whispers
tall in the forest
a tragic tale.
‘Beside me grew
not long ago
a soft-leaved fern.
‘By morning it drank
the night’s potion,
beams in the brightness of noon;
feeling that the sun
and summer loves
would last lifelong.
‘Then came the autumn-cold
mask of frost,
my weak-stalked friend trembled:
“The sun has betrayed
its pledge to me.
Now I shall meet my death”.
‘I smiled
at its childishness,
recalled my own youth.
Your leaves will fall
pale to earth,
but your stem will surely stand.
‘Night passed,
a new day dawned,
frost hid the dell.
But my friend,
weak-stalked,
I never saw again.’
The dim tree drooped
its dark head,
day is near to death.
Leaf tears tumbled
drained of colour
from the branch’s cold eye.
Jóhann Sigurjónsson
Read by Gudrún Ólafsdóttir
Music
Piano Quintet in E flat, Op. 44: 2. In modo d'una marcia (un poco largamente), Robert Schumann
Christian Zacharias and the Cherubini Quartet
Image
Forest in the Morning Light, Asher Brown Durand
Courtesy National Gallery of Art, Washington