Hans Christian Andersen

1805–1875 a Being cleaves the moonlit air, With eyes of dew and plumes of fire, New-born, immortal, strong and fair; Glance ere he goes! His feet are shrouded like the dead, But in his face a wild desire Breaks like the dawn that flushes red, And like a rose. The stars shine out above his path, And music wakes through all the skies; What mortal such a triumph hath, By death set free? What earthly hands and heart are pure As this man’s, whose unshrinking eyes Gaze onward through the deep obscure, Nor quail to see? Ah! this was he who drank the fount Of wisdom set in speechless things, Who, patient, watched the day-star mount, While others slept. Ah! this was he whose loving soul Found heart-beats under trembling wings, And heard divinest music roll Where wild springs leapt. For poor dumb lips had song for him And children’s dreamings ran in tune, And strange old heroes, weird and dim, Walked by his side. The very shadows loved him well And danced and flickered in the moon, And left him wondrous tales to tell Men far and wide. And now no more he smiling walks Through greenwood alleys full of sun, And, as he wanders, turns and talks, Though none be there; The children watch in vain the place Where they were wont, when day was done, To see their poet’s sweet worn face, And faded hair. Yet dream not such a spirit dies, Though all its earthly shrine decay! Transfigured under clearer skies, He sings anew; The frail soul-covering, racked with pain, And scored with vigil, fades away, The soul set free and young again Glides upward through. Weep not, but watch the moonlit air! Perchance a glory like a star May leave what hangs about him there, And flash on us!… Behold! the void is full of light, The beams pierce heaven from bar to bar And all the hollows of the night Grow luminous!