To molde

Molde, Molde,
         True as a song,
Billowy rhythms whose thoughts fill with love me,
Follow thy form in bright colors above me,
         Bear thy beauty along.
Naught is so black as thy fjord, when storm-lashes
Sea-salted scourge it and inward it dashes,
Naught is so mild as thy strand, as thine islands,
         Ah, as thine islands!
Naught is so strong as thy mountain-linked ring,
Naught is so sweet as thy summer-nights bring.
         Molde, Molde,
         True as a song,
     Murm'ring memories throng.

         Molde, Molde,
         Flower-o'ergrown,
Houses and gardens where good friends wander!
Hundreds of miles away,—but I'm yonder
         'Mid the roses full-blown.
Strong shines the sun on that mountain-rimmed beauty,
Fast is the fight, let each man do his duty.
Friends, who your favor would never begrudge me,
         Gently now judge me!—
Only with life ends the fight for the right.
Thought flees to you for a refuge in light.
         Molde, Molde,
         Flower-o'ergrown,
     Childhood's memories' throne.

             Oh, may at last
         In thine embrace, life's fleeting
             Conflict past,
         Glad thine evening-glory greeting,
         —Where life let thought awaken,—
         My thought by death be taken!