For Norge, for vårt Fedrenord opløft deg, frie Presse! Dets sterke Ånder Spyd af Ord i deg for Norge hvesser. I Skrin er Kjempeoldet lagt. Nu står de høye Ord på Vakt. Til Norges Ære bruk din Makt din Makt, vår frie Presse! Henrik Wergeland
Les mer»Hvor trives noe godt og skjønt og stort i tvang? Kvel engen – gresset blir ei grønt. Bind ørnen- dør den på sin pynt; Stans kilden som med sang begynt har raskt sin gang – og den en giftig sump vil bli. Naturen hater sterk og fri All Tvang! Skal Åndens Kilder, Tankens Flukt da […]
Les mer»Free of memory and of hope, limitless, abstract, almost future, the dead man is not a dead man: he is death. Like the God of the mystics, of Whom anything that could be said must be denied, the dead one, alien everywhere, is but the ruin and absence of the world. We rob him of […]
Les mer»Ett Gathörn; och midt emot ett stort hus En man står i gathörnet oc ser uppåt huset, der folk sitta och läsa tidningar. En annen man kommer; stannar och samtalar med den i gathörnet; går. Mannen i gathörnet promenerar; han säljer tidningar. En man kommer ut från huset, och ber att mannen går, så får […]
Les mer»Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, And sorry I could not travel both And be one traveler, long I stood And looked down one as far as I could To where it bent in the undergrowth; Then took the other, as just as fair, And having perhaps the better claim, Because it was grassy […]
Les mer»Youth’s the season made for joys, Love is then our duty; She alone who that employs, Well deserves her beauty. Let’s be gay, While we may, Beauty’s a flower despis’d in decay. Let us drink and sport to-day, Ours is not tomorrow. Love with youth flies swift away, Age is nought but sorrow. Dance and […]
Les mer»If, in an odd angle of the hutment, A puppy laps the water from a can Of flowers, and the drunk sergeant shaving Whistles O Paradiso!–shall I say that man Is not as men have said: a wolf to man? The other murderers troop in yawning; Three of them play Pitch, one sleeps, and one […]
Les mer»All the world’s a stage, And all the men and women merely players; They have their exits and their entrances, And one man in his time plays many parts, His acts being seven ages. At first, the infant, Mewling and puking in the nurse’s arms. Then the whining schoolboy, with his satchel And shining morning […]
Les mer»One rational voice is dumb. Over his grave the household of Impulse mourns one dearly loved: sad is Eros, builder of cities, and weeping anarchic Aphrodite. W.H. Auden
Les mer»But he wishes us more than this. To be free is often to be lonely. He would unite the unequal moieties fractured by our own well-meaning sense of justice, would restore to the larger the wit and will the smaller possesses but can only use for arid disputes, would give back to the son the […]
Les mer»
