To Molde

(See Note 64)          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!