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!