Recension
Vel rødmer Land og Hav ret smukt i Aftensolens Flamme,
Men ak, Maneren, mærker man, bestandig er den samme.
Original er Solen ei, hvad saa den er forresten;
Bestandig staaer den op i Øst, og synker ned i Vesten.
Saa komme Nattens Stjerner frem, men man sig ret maa harme,
De skinne vel, men Alt er koldt, der er ei Liv, ei Varme.
En Nattergal ret snurrigt slaaer sin Trille hist bag Muren,
Men der er ei Methode i, det er jo reent Naturen;
Desuden er den altfor ung, har neppe Duun paa Hagen,
Og havde Sangen ingen Feil, saa sang den nok om dagen.
Nu staaer da ogsaa Maanen op, og den er ei saa ilde,
Var den dog bare altid rund, og ikke skifte vilde.
Høit skummer Bølgen, men for stærkt, den maa sig moderere –
– Det Hele røber vel Genie, men heller ikke mere!
Critique
It’s true the land and sea grow nicely red in sunset’s flame,
But ah, the way they do, one notes, is always just the same.
The sun is not original, that’s all one can attest:
It always rises in the East and sets far in the West.
Then out come the nocturnal stars, but this feels just a cheat,
They brightly shine, but all is cold, there’s neither life nor heat.
A nightingale quite quaintly trills behind the wall out there,
But there’s no method in it, it is only Nature’s snare;
What’s more the bird’s too young, has scarcely fluff to call a beard,
And if its song was faultless in the daytime would be heard.
The moon comes on the scene, it’s nice when it begins to rise,
If only it was always round, not wildly changing size.
The waves have foaming crests, should really learn to be more flat –
A touch of genius everywhere, but nothing more than that!
