Never begin, but always at the edge of Being...

When will I enter my native wood,
Eat berries galore, at a bunny stand gazing?
In an old snare catch foxie-red-hood,
Bringing a pailful of ruffs caught at night-time grazing?


When will I come to my dearly loved home
Greeted afar by four birches lone,
Back to embrace my mother and sister,
And shake off the tears that in dear eyes glisten?


Oh, to meet everyone,
Talk about everything,
To greet the meadows, to fields to bow !
Am I still able to sow and mow ?
Am I still able to follow the plough ?

Det finnes stunder 
da alle ord er små,
da lykka er et vårsyn:
ei solgnist i ei dråpe dogg
som siger langs et strå.