Kirkjuritið - 01.04.1964, Blaðsíða 18

„ON DEATH’S UNCERTAIN
HOUR“
By Hallgrímur Pétursson
(1614—1674)
Translated by G. M. Ga.thorne-Hardy
As grows a floweret tender
Up from the level lawn,
To bloom in purest splendour
Beneath the rays of dawn,
Then, by the scythe invaded,
Lies in a moment’s span,
Dead leaves, and colours faded —
So ends the life of man.
Childhood, of fate unwitting,
Ripe age and old foredone,
Along Death’s pathway flitting,
The self-same race must run.
No seal of state availeth
To grant our life a stay;
One common doom assaileth
All men — to pass away.
Then Death, meseems, most truly
Is like a reaper shown,
Who plies his sickle duly
Till all the field is mown.
Nor green of herbs and grasses
Nor flush of flowers he heeds,
But reed and rose he classes
Alike as worthless weeds.