Björn he was a strong and handsome lad,
With mighty, broad shoulders
And a narrower waist than other men
Such things annoy the vicious elves.
He went to a feast one autumn evening,
When the moon shone on trees and rocks
And the wind blew
Hi and ho
Over marsh and wood,
Through wood and plain;
Then he had something magic in his mood,
He looks to the forest and has no peace,
He looks at the vault of the sky,
But the trees wink and nod,
And the stars blink and gaze:
Go in, go in, in among the singing woods!
--
He goes, obeying the dark command,
Willingly, yet under duress;
But the forest dwarves in blackest garb,
They are guileful in the heather
Weaving a net of moonbeams
And the shade of waving twigs and branches,
A trembling net
In undergrowth and thickets
Behind the wanderer's footstep,
As he proceeds;
And they laugh so h***sely at the captive.
In their dens wolf and lynx awaken,
But Björn dreams to their song,
That sounds among the fir-trees
And whispers and lures and invites him:
Deeper, deeper into the deceitful woods!
--
Now the sighing wind is suddenly silent,
And summer-sweet is the night,
And the scent rises from the flowering lime
By the sleeping water of the pond.
In the shadow there is a rustling sound:
There billows a delicate moon-white gown,
There an arm waves,
So fine and smooth,
There a breast heaves,
There a mouth whispers,
And two eyes sink in yours
And play so at eternal constancy,
That every memory dries up;
They invite you to slumber and forget,
They invite you to sleep and to dream
In peace of love in the whispering, numbing wood.
--
But the heart that is stolen by a wood-nymph
Is never returned:
For his soul longs for the moonlight dreams,
And he cannot love a wife.
Such blue eyes in the forest at night
Have torn his mind from harrow and plough,
He cannot smile
And be cheerful as before,
And the years they look
In through his door,
But find neither child nor flower;
Moodily he grows old in his empty home,
The seats round the fire are empty,
And if he expects anything of the years,
He expects only death and a bier,
He listens with inconsolable grief to the sigh of the woods.
[Faction]
With mighty, broad shoulders
And a narrower waist than other men
Such things annoy the vicious elves.
He went to a feast one autumn evening,
When the moon shone on trees and rocks
And the wind blew
Hi and ho
Over marsh and wood,
Through wood and plain;
Then he had something magic in his mood,
He looks to the forest and has no peace,
He looks at the vault of the sky,
But the trees wink and nod,
And the stars blink and gaze:
Go in, go in, in among the singing woods!
--
He goes, obeying the dark command,
Willingly, yet under duress;
But the forest dwarves in blackest garb,
They are guileful in the heather
Weaving a net of moonbeams
And the shade of waving twigs and branches,
A trembling net
In undergrowth and thickets
Behind the wanderer's footstep,
As he proceeds;
And they laugh so h***sely at the captive.
In their dens wolf and lynx awaken,
But Björn dreams to their song,
That sounds among the fir-trees
And whispers and lures and invites him:
Deeper, deeper into the deceitful woods!
--
Now the sighing wind is suddenly silent,
And summer-sweet is the night,
And the scent rises from the flowering lime
By the sleeping water of the pond.
In the shadow there is a rustling sound:
There billows a delicate moon-white gown,
There an arm waves,
So fine and smooth,
There a breast heaves,
There a mouth whispers,
And two eyes sink in yours
And play so at eternal constancy,
That every memory dries up;
They invite you to slumber and forget,
They invite you to sleep and to dream
In peace of love in the whispering, numbing wood.
--
But the heart that is stolen by a wood-nymph
Is never returned:
For his soul longs for the moonlight dreams,
And he cannot love a wife.
Such blue eyes in the forest at night
Have torn his mind from harrow and plough,
He cannot smile
And be cheerful as before,
And the years they look
In through his door,
But find neither child nor flower;
Moodily he grows old in his empty home,
The seats round the fire are empty,
And if he expects anything of the years,
He expects only death and a bier,
He listens with inconsolable grief to the sigh of the woods.
[Faction]