By Bjørnstjerne Bjørnson
with music by Christian Sinding
A mind is us near.
Under the great star sign
of Norway’s rise
it was sparked here.
Its orbit then did streak
towards the highest peak,
for its thoughts to seek,
reaching the highest point here.
A mind is us near.
Its bright host here
thoughts arouses,
fills our houses.
Not sung:
As in a mighty wave’s
distant rhythmic roar
conquer, conquer, may they win.
They’re followed
by thoughts that spring from the world of
the past,
but whose train was cut.
When they came at last,
it was shut.
It was early in the day,
but when they came at last,
it was shut.
Just as steadfast as time
is numbers´ design.
Their plaiting is always,
in bright morning rays,
purer than the snow,
finer than the air;
yet stronger than the world,
that they weigh with no need of scales
and light where the use of light fails.
And he has
Planted up-shooting roots
in our cognition´s law.
Where he was,
cannot be thought without him.
Not sung:
When he sensed his fate,
Death came him to take,
he asked Death to wait.
He pursued his design
till he put the sign,
the last
under that which no one yet did know,
nor comprehend.
Now research can seek its end.
Of his birth the star
leads on to his cradle
wise men come from afar.
Century?
Seems just like yesterday.
Where solitude grows forth
by sea and in the dark,
there thought rushes in
both from play and from work.
In the sight of the sky,
of sea and of stone ...
among hundreds who seek
till thoughts become one.
Over such complex problems
he must continually pore;
a book that shall answer,
only comes out with more.
The wasteland´s given eyes,
that ask with impatience;
the stars themselves speak of
measure and distance.
Give such a man some wings,
then space becomes the bait,
he resolves for our world
mysteries of ancient date...
From Norway´s west a lad
just over twenty years.
Now the whole world owns him,
but the boy was ours.