Quotes about Denmark, page 4
Daniel SchjÖtz
(DIED OF OVER-EXERTION AS VOLUNTEER MILITARY-SURGEON, 1864)
He gave heed to no Great Power
But the one that God we call.
Hastening on to death's high hour,
He before asked not the Gaul,
Nor the Briton, nor the others,
If he too had leave to die
In the battle of his brothers
Underneath the Danish sky.
First to act with ardor youthful,
First a strong, clear faith to show,
First to swear in spirit truthful,
First o'er death's dark bridge to go.
Knowing not, in times so trying
None would come but he alone,
Thus he struggled, death defying,
For the sacred things we own.
He of thousands here remaining
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poem by Bjørnstjerne Bjørnson
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Med et tydsk Exemplar af mine Eventyr
Du har en Kunstnersjæl, jeg troer derpaa,
Dens Straaler jeg i dine Skizzer saae.
Du har et ærligt Øje; — Hjertets Grund
Staaer i et trofast Smiil omkring Din Mund.
Jeg strax forstod Dig. Eventyr de skikke
Dig denne Juul; Veninden har dem bragt;
Et lille Vers jeg har i Bogen lagt;
Du har en Ven i Danmark; glem ham ikke!
poem by Hans Christian Andersen
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Tales Of A Wayside Inn : Part 1. The Musician's Tale; The Saga of King Olaf XIX. -- King Olaf's War-Horns
'Strike the sails!' King Olaf said;
'Never shall men of mine take flight;
Never away from battle I fled,
Never away from my foes!
Let God dispose
Of my life in the fight!'
'Sound the horns!' said Olaf the King;
And suddenly through the drifting brume
The blare of the horns began to ring,
Like the terrible trumpet shock
Of Regnarock,
On the Day of Doom!
Louder and louder the war-horns sang
Over the level floor of the flood;
All the sails came down with a clang,
And there in the mist overhead
The sun hung red
As a drop of blood.
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poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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Beowulf (Episode 07)
HROTHGAR spake, the Scyldings'-helmet: --
"For fight defensive, Friend my Beowulf,
to succor and save, thou hast sought us here.
Thy father's combat a feud enkindled
when Heatholaf with hand he slew
among the Wylfings; his Weder kin
for horror of fighting feared to hold him.
Fleeing, he sought our South-Dane folk,
over surge of ocean the Honor-Scyldings,
when first I was ruling the folk of Danes,
wielded, youthful, this widespread realm,
this hoard-hold of heroes. Heorogar was dead,
my elder brother, had breathed his last,
Healfdene's bairn: he was better than I!
Straightway the feud with fee I settled,
to the Wylfings sent, o'er watery ridges,
treasures olden: oaths he swore me.
Sore is my soul to say to any
of the race of man what ruth for me
in Heorot Grendel with hate hath wrought,
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poem by Anonymous Olde English
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Tales Of A Wayside Inn : Part 1. The Musician's Tale; The Saga of King Olaf XVII. -- King Svend Of The Forked Beard
Loudly the sailors cheered
Svend of the Forked Beard,
As with his fleet he steered
Southward to Vendland;
Where with their courses hauled
All were together called,
Under the Isle of Svald
Near to the mainland.
After Queen Gunhild's death,
So the old Saga saith,
Plighted King Svend his faith
To Sigrid the Haughty;
And to avenge his bride,
Soothing her wounded pride,
Over the waters wide
King Olaf sought he.
Still on her scornful face,
Blushing with deep disgrace,
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poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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I have also been saddened, though hardly surprised, by the weakness of the EU's reaction to the criminal attack on the Danish embassy in Syria, which seems to have been permitted, if not actively encouraged, by the Syrian regime.
quote by Timothy Garton Ash
Added by Lucian Velea
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Til Landsoldaten
Vor Tanke flyver til Leiren,
Til Dig i Kamp og paa Vagt;
Vor Herre giver Dig Seiren,
Du Danmark har Hæder bragt.
Selv Barnet i Aftenbønnen
Høit beder for Dig en Bøn,
Moderen beder for Sønnen,
Du brave, Du herlige Søn!
For hvad Du maa prøve og døie,
I Kamp, paa Vagt og i Slud,
Staae Taarer i mangt et Øie,
Gud signe Dig! — Du holder ud!
poem by Hans Christian Andersen
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Til A. Bournonville [Du giver os en Digtning uden Ord]
Du giver os en Digtning uden Ord,
Og dog saa talende med Sandheds Stemme;
Vi er med Dig til Sømands-Fest ombord
Der fjernt fra Danmark og dog deiligt hjemme.
Den blussende Granatblomst har Du lagt
Imellem frisk Skovmærke; — hvilken Pragt
Af Skjønheds Digt har dog Din Sjæl igjemme!
Igjen en Perle fra din Rigdom har Du bragt,
Igjen en Krands, som vi taknemligt gjemme.
poem by Hans Christian Andersen
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The Super
When I was with a Shakespeare show
I played the part of Guildenstern,
Or Rosenkrantz - at least I know
It wasn't difficult to learn;
By Reader, do not at me scoff,
For futhermore I should explain
I was the understudy of
The understudy of the Dane.
Oh how it crabbed me just to think
They barred me from that role divine;
And how I longed to have them drink
A cup of slightly poisoned wine!
At every night with struts and rants
I strove my quid a week to earn,
And put my soul in Rosenkrantz -
Or was it haply, Guildenstern.
Alas! I might have spared by breath,
I never played the noble Dane;
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poem by Robert William Service
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Beowulf (Episode 28-30)
HASTENED the hardy one, henchmen with him,
sandy strand of the sea to tread
and widespread ways. The world's great candle,
sun shone from south. They strode along
with sturdy steps to the spot they knew
where the battle-king young, his burg within,
slayer of Ongentheow, shared the rings,
shelter-of-heroes. To Hygelac
Beowulf's coming was quickly told, --
that there in the court the clansmen's refuge,
the shield-companion sound and alive,
hale from the hero-play homeward strode.
With haste in the hall, by highest order,
room for the rovers was readily made.
By his sovran he sat, come safe from battle,
kinsman by kinsman. His kindly lord
he first had greeted in gracious form,
with manly words. The mead dispensing,
came through the high hall Haereth's daughter,
winsome to warriors, wine-cup bore
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poem by Anonymous Olde English
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Fra Qvirinalhaven
I Syd er Vintren Vaar og Vaaren Sommer,
Orangen gløder her saa guul og rund;
Men naar Erindringsfuglen til mig kommer,
Døe Sydens Træer for Sjølunds Bøgelund.
Der lever Du, der leve mine Minder,
Kun Danmark har mig Paradisets Lyst.
O gid, før Aaret under Bølgen svinder,
I Hjemmet jeg Dig trykke til mit Bryst!
Der Livets Guld-Orange for mig svømmer,
Der er den Vaar, hvorom kun Syden drømmer.
poem by Hans Christian Andersen
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I Prindsesse Dagmars Stambog
Her Pen og Blæk en Tegning gav:
En Kornmark med en Kjæmpegrav,
En Bøgeskov, det aabne Hav,
Og Danmark er fremstillet.
Men selv i Lykkens bedste Hjem
Kan Mindets Taare perle frem,
Den har langt bedre Billed.
Det ud fra Barnehjerte sprang,
Med Solskin og med Barnesang,
Selv mindste Blomst maa ligne.
Sligt Hjertet kun kan aande hen,
Det tegnes ei med Blæk og Pen.
— Gud glæde Dig, Fyrstinde!
poem by Hans Christian Andersen
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With millions of family wage manufacturing jobs lost since 2001, we need an energy bill that takes bold action to tap into American ingenuity in order to lead the world in new clean energy technology, rather than playing catch-up to the Japanese, Danish, and Germans.
quote by Jay Inslee
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Tales Of A Wayside Inn : Part 1. The Musician's Tale; The Saga of King Olaf XVI. -- Queen Thuri And The Angelica Stalks
Northward over Drontheim,
Flew the clamorous sea-gulls,
Sang the lark and linnet
From the meadows green;
Weeping in her chamber,
Lonely and unhappy,
Sat the Drottning Thyri,
Sat King Olaf's Queen.
In at all the windows
Streamed the pleasant sunshine,
On the roof above her
Softly cooed the dove;
But the sound she heard not,
Nor the sunshine heeded,
For the thoughts of Thyri
Were not thoughts of love,
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poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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Fremad!
Fremad! frem, I danske Drenge!
Husk, I værne maae
Danmark, deiligst Vang og Vænge,
Blomst paa Havets Blaa.
Værne skulle I med Staalet
Danmarks Ret og Modersmaalet,
Saa det aldrig glemmes siden.
Gud er med i Striden!
Ærlighed til Skjold I føre!
Fjenderne I slaae,
Saa at det for Verdens Øre
Rigtigt runge maa.
Under Kampen Sværdet raade,
Efter Kampen Mildhed, Naade!
Fremad! frem, I danske Drenge,
Værner Vang og Vænge.
poem by Hans Christian Andersen
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Ch 03 On The Excellence Of Contentment Story 27
A thief said to a mendicant: ‘Art thou not ashamed to stretch out thy hand for a grain of silver to every sordid fellow?’ He replied:
‘To hold out the hand for a grain of silver
Is better than to get it cut off for one dane and a half.’
Grev Joachim Moltke-Bregentved
Tænk kun paa ham hvis Støv er Graven bragt,
Erindring, udfold heel din Blomsterpragt!
Et Smiil sad i hans Øie, om hans Mund,
Det lyste fra den rene Hjerte-Bund.
Husk Julens Glæder, naar han spøgte glad;
Saa rigt og stort er Hjertets Mindeblad.
Hos Eder lykkelig og glad han stod,
For Danmarks Sag, han Hjemmets Hjem forlod.
Den vaade Jord og Nattens kolde Vind,
Skjød Dødens Kugle i hans Hjerte ind.
Sit unge Liv han glad for Danmark gav.
De Runer vil' vi riste paa hans Grav!
poem by Hans Christian Andersen
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Januar
'- Nyfødt Aaret er vorden!
Stolt, med den flagrende Lok, i Storm og i Blæst,
Paa sin vingede Hest
Jager Tiden hen over Jorden - !'
*
Vandringsmanden.
Et Hjem for Samojed og Pescheræ
Viser den frosne Jord med sin Snee;
Men her, som i et Feeland at see,
Staaer det riimfrosne Træ
Og løfter mod Solen sin glimrende Green
Mod en Luft, som Italiens, sortblaa, men reen.
Det er deiligt at see,
Hvor over den hvide Snee
Den sorte Rovfugl svæver,
Og Hytterne hist, hvor Røgen sig hæver,
Hvor Pigen strøer Korn af sin lille Kurv
For den qviddrende Spurv.
- Ja, nyfødt Aaret er vorden!
Stolt med den flagrende Lok, i Storm og i Blæst,
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poem by Hans Christian Andersen
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The Dog Doctor.
Dompi, Dumpi, Dog. Denmark dancing dog
Drinking drugs, the doze baron.
Digging dip the deepest drum
That drag the dog to go dump.
Dompi, Dumpi, dog
Do drop, from double storm.
and december come with dangling dud
Darling dog will die in ember
Either september or october.
dull darling george come,
during damanda.
donig the boy a dog Doctor.
poem by Ebi Robert
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Ælla, A Tragical Interlude - Act II
SCENE I
MAGNUS, HURRA, and HIE PREESTE, wyth the ARMIE, neare Watchette.
MAGNUS.
Swythe lette the offrendes to the Goddes begynne,
To knowe of hem the issue of the fyghte.
Potte the blodde-steyned sword and pavyes ynne;
Spreade swythyn all arounde the hallie lyghte.
HIE PREESTE syngeth.
Yee, who hie yn mokie ayre
Delethe seasonnes foule or fayre,
Yee, who, whanne yee weere agguylte,
The mone yn bloddie gytelles hylte,
Mooved the starres, and dyd unbynde
Everyche barriere to the wynde;
Whanne the oundynge waves dystreste,
Storven to be overest,
Sockeynge yn the spyre-gyrte towne,
Swolterynge wole natyons down;
Sendynge dethe, on plagues astrodde,
Moovynge lyke the erthys Godde;
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poem by Thomas Chatterton
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