Lögberg-Heimskringla - 19.12.1986, Síða 5

Curly
From the Icelandic of Stephan G. Stephansson
I
Like a chessboard the country lay measured
and smooth,
A!1 cleared and settled and fair.
Each farmstead beside the much-traveled road
Enclosed in a neat, little square.
Eáth mile to the corner ran perfectly straight.
. . . No hills to climb and no dales . . .
One half pointed south to the sun at noon,
The rest to where shadows trail.
The western freedonr was felt in the air,
As if plainly it meant to say:
The road is free, my friend, as you please,
And straight ahead is the way.
Nö trespassing feet we here will allow
Without demanding our toll.
We grant you freedom to travel and vote,
But there's where endeth our role.
And the dark, red barns loomed high in the air,
Like rocks from the soil they rose,
The sun’s hot rays bent down on the land,
The calm was oppressive and close.
. . . From a house in a grove the windows
shone
Where prairie and woodland met,
A shelter from storms and the swirling snow
And eyes that on spying are set.
When the gate was opened that led to the
house
Two rows of trees were seen
All neat and trim to the wide flower beds,
And the well-kept wálk between.
The grapevines their tendrils upwards shot
Covering cornice and walls,
And their heavy clusters against the sun
Hung from the porches tall.
And fragrance mild from the blooming trees
Of fruit in season did tell.
. . . The pure, white blossoms on the dark
green boughs,
As if snow in sunshine fell.
The plum-trees were fairest and blended their
white
With the tinge of roses red,
As if Freedom and Innocence had conspired
And their hues on their petals shed.
But spoiled they were by the hand of man,
As trunk and leaves did show.
. . . For nature is most impressive when
Left wild and free to grow.
. . . Behind was a clump of forest trees
Remaining from bygone days . . .
Two generations had cleared the land,
Had labored and passed away . . .
Tough-rooted beeches with silvery bark
And crowns like canopies round,
And maples with trunks that are rough and
gray
And delicate, fresh, green fronds.
The oaks were oldest and darkest their green
And deep in the earth their roots.
. . . Does lack of care make them longest-lived?
For tillage bears no such fruit.
Beyond the trees were the spring-sown fields
With furrows even and long.
The blades of the corn in endless rows
Hung down like doubled tongues.
The meadows took on a darker hue
Where the purplish clovers swayed.
Each petal that opened to the sun
A feast for the droning bees made.
II
I know these verses are tame compared
With summer’s exquisite art
In the countryside where, my Curly dear,
We met . . . and so soon did part.
Yet remembrance’s clearest light you lend
To that region and township fair
When my mind unbound by time and place
Dwells with you, dearest, there.
For your sake, Curly, I make this lay
And dedicate it to you.
. . . Each morning I was your obedient slave,
Each midday your playmate true,
Each battle and victory, respite and peace
Was shared, our kingdom and pride.
In quarrels domestic when you were assailed
I gallantly stood by your side.
When the hot and motionless evenirig.air
Lay heavy and baked the sward,
When the rays of the sun had gone to sleep
And darkness shrouded the earth,
You discovered new worlds beyond the sun
And the stars that twinkle and gleam.
You sat on my knee till your curly head
Found rest in the land of dreams.
III
The nights grew longer and low in the sky
The late autumnal sun rose,
And wintry darkness covered the land,
As Decembér drew to a close.
The windswept fields were frozen and bleak
As sands that are sterile and bare,
And out in the furrows the dry grain stalks
Stood trembling in frosty air.
Around the house lay withered stems
As bleaching bones near a iair.
The apple trees . . . the fairest in spring . . .
Were ugliest now, and where
The leaves had been thickest now rotting they
lay.
. . . The northern summers are best . . .
The evergreens stand above the snow
Like fairy-isles of the blest.
You stood by the window, Curly dear,
Thinking of me when I left.
The only remaining flower you were
Of summer and joy bereft.
On a cold, dark morning I took my leave
Of you, without words or tears.
The parting handshake eased the pain
And sorrow of tender years.
IV
We met not again . . . When December suns
Rise low at Christmas tide
In memories fond you visit me yet
And call me to your side.
I ask not the way, nor can any choose
The road with more constant care,
For where you have lived is my land of
dreams.
In my thoughts I dwell with you there.
Perhaps your grave by many is sought
And planted with drooping trees.
The best is transient, and beauty dies young,
For so does Fate decree.
But that which excels is first to mature
And needs not length of years.
I do not complain though such were the case
With you, as might well appear.
Though in prison you were, as oft was the lot
Of integrity worthy as yours . . .
To the generous life is a wildering maze
And its aims are dark and obscure.
Though ignorance old of two ways may talk
Which one must choose between,
If such teachings hoary were not a lie
The righP'could be easily seen.
And even though your own slave you were,
As I and most others be,
Your genial heart could poverty change
To opulence easy and free.
For a noble soul makes the hut a hail
And a castle the lowly thatch.
. . . Though the slut be set on the throne of a
queen
Her nature it soon would match.
Though a lady fine you were and wore
Raiment both costly and fair,
You'd lend new lustre to the gold
And the diamonds in your hair.
V
And so, dear Curly, at Christmas time
I sing of your home and grave.
In the years that have passed you were not
forgot,
I’m still your knight-errant brave.
ALDARAFMÆLISÁR, FÖSTUDAGUR 19. PÉSEMBER 19

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