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XI.

Dy haw ik sein hwet op my weacht: it lêst

Hast fen gjin ien sa field, it frjemde lok

Det inkeld ik hjir wit, myn laits om sok

In heimich ding as d’ ienris iivge rêst.

En nou: scilstou forstean? My pleagen drok

Hwa’t my as ljeafsten gouwen: sterk en fêst

Droech nimmen ’t jok yet fen myn ljeafde, en dwêst

Waerd nea myn langst, myn ljeafde mear as flok.

Dit is hwerom ik gean, in prins sa ljocht:

Det nimmen lijt as ik, om’t nimmen socht

De stien, dy’t flûnkret yn it hert’ fen d’ ierde.

Dit is hwerom ik bûg, in mûnts sa leech:

Nimmen seach mei my yet, dêr jinsen, heech

De blauwe glâns, dy’t al myn dreamen sierde.

As ’k dea bin, wier? den sjongst in kostlik liet:

Fen ho’t hy frjemd wier, faeks en njoer en kâld

En hjerst fen skyn, mar Maeije yn ’t hert—de wrâld

Forstie him net, sa sjongste frjeonlik-swiet;

Hy wier net earm, sa seist den, in geniet, Myld, nuver, joech him ljocht; hy wier net âld, Mar jong as froast’ge maitiidsmoarn; it wâld

Wier him ta frjeon, ta ljeafste it hymjend wiet.

Hy, hater, wier mei roazen bliid; it giel

Fen ’t weagjend nôt wier him, de donkre, djûr; Net ien, mar Ik, mar Ik forstie syn siel’.

Nou bin ik ienlik, drôf; in hetsich sûr

Barnt my de tonge; in koarts fen longrjend fiel

Nei Him, nei Him bliuwt my nou inkeld oer.

As ’k dea bin, wis, den sjongst in hearlik liet, Det hiel de wrâld forstive stiet fen smert, En wer ûntweitsjend, lústrjend seit: dêr let In klok aloan fen in to frjemd fortriet.

Den bringt men dy oliif en drúf; ien biedt Dy, earme sjonger, ’t bloed oan fen syn hert’, ’t Lûd fen syn siele in oar; en elts bidjert Dy sêft mei jeften om dyn yndrôf liet.

Mar dou nimst neat mear nei dy: dou bist bliid As ’t bloed dy fen dyn soallen rint, as ’t each Dy diiznich wirdt: sa komt dyn lêste tiid...

Myn holle omspint de Dea mei rust-brún reach, Yn griis klaed sit ik stil by ’t Deade-wiid, Det blyn slacht hwa’t syn weagen skûmjen seach.

Ast nei my komst, en ik bin dea, den scil

Myn each net ljochtsje; it toarre en bleke liif

Ammet net waerm mear nêst dy; deadsk en stiif

Forgean myn lea, net lústrjend nei myn wil.

Patsje myn iiz’ge mûle net! Lit stil,

Net nytgjend my yn d’ ierd forgean. ’t Earm lyk

Kin dôch gjin wearpea jaen... ’t is dien. It ryk

Fen ’t libben sonk yn sompen, goar en kil.

Den net, mar nou. Kom dôch, ik gûl nei dy...

Oars rout it dy, ear’t yet dit jier forgiet; Kom ticht, hiel ticht; dou wist, ik ljeavje dy.

Liz lylje-blêdden op myn boarst, det bliedt, En op myn mûle balsem, fris en nij...

En den, sjong as ik stoar, in blider liet!

Sa lang ik fen hwa’t diel hawwe oan dyn siele, It heechste riis yn fieling en yn liet

En ’t keninklike poarper draech, bistiet

Myn ljeafde lyk in snieberch, goud-oerstriele.

En yn myn dreamen hearst oan my, en fiele

Myn tinzen neat fen hwet ús ivich skiedt, Lyk strûzend ek in sémieu oer it wiet

Gjin weagen wit, mar oanfljucht, ljocht-bimiele.

Ik seach yn ’t ivich blau de hege sinne

Sa prinslik glânzgjen oer it prieljend gea—

Scoe ik dy ea as ljeafste groetsje kinne?

Mar nou toraent it lêste jountiids-rea,

De lûde sé brûz’t oer fen wylde minne—

En op myn herte slacht it fûl del: Nea!

’k Song, Lionel, dyn ljeafde; ik joech myn stim

Det dêryn tsjûgje mocht dyn geast, hweroan

It egen lûd ûntstoar. Ik naem dyn kroan,

En laei op ’t egen hier syn bleke glim.

Lang wier dyn ljeafde ek mines; hiel myn moarn

Wier, frjeonen fen myn siele, wijd oan jim, ’k Joech jim myn ljeafde en tocht aloan oan him

Dy’t lijde as ik, de kenings-ljeafde ûntstoarn.

Wyld, twingend ha ’k jim ljeave en ’t wier myn rjucht.

For kinstners is de skientme slachteleas, En ik hie neat as ’t glânzgjen fen jim eagen.

En nou’t myn geast nei greater dagen tsjucht

Bliuw ’k seinjend jim, myn frjeonen, dy’t ik keas

Do’t ik to stjerren tocht yn hate en ljeagen.

TRIJE LYTSE RIGEN.

OAN IN FRJEON. I.

Dêr’t ûnder bûgend wâld in wjitt’ring klear

Mids blomte en snilen streamt, hast toeve yn dreamen; Stil weven glinsters oer dyn hier; de seamen

Fen reid oan d’ oere rûzen bliid en tear.

Sims hast dy bûgd en delsjoen yn de streamen

Dêr’t hiel in wrâld him yn syn dream forlear;

Dyn antlit, yn de goud-stream blank en tear,

Wier glinzich fen in langstme, nea to neamen.

Do is de faem Idoena glimkjend gien

En hat hjar bûgd, sêft oer dyn skouders hinne,

En yn de wjitt’ring seachstû nêst dy ien

Sa goed en myld, as nea gjin minsken binne...

Forheard seachst op. Hja wier yn beamt fordwoun

En inkeld rûze in lústrjen ’t wâld yn ’t roun.

II.

Idoena giet yn Walhal’s stins, dêr’t sinne

Aloan hjar gloede as rinnend goud oer spraet; Krûd, roazen, douwen siere op ’t moaist hjar paed

En iiv’gens is hjar each, hjar siel’ goadinne.

Minske bistû. Ut Fryslâns wâld fendinne

Hat dyn bistean nei strjitte en stêd dy laet—

Yet kenst de tael fen mar en wâld, mar waerd

Dy gind to gean yn heeg’re geast’ne minne?

Dochs sjuchst hjar glânzgjend each wol eltse stoune—

Dyn langstme is as de sé dy’t tynt en sinkt, Dû wolst en kliuwst en siichst wer del, forwoune.

En hja yn Walhal’s moarmer sjucht en tinkt,

En noegjend sjongt Idoena, roaze-omwoune, Hjar liet, oant yn dyn each wer hoopjen blinkt.

Unnoaz’le, dû, ho is dyn each sa drôf!

Ryk bloeit dyn siele en seit hjar dreame-wille

Yn útrings klear en myld, dy’t dûrje scille,

As hiel dit slachte al foel en wylge yn stôf.

En drôvest om’t dyn ljeafde yn stille rôf

Dyn rêst dy naem, kleist om’t dyn skouders tille

In iiv’ge lêst fen hope en hún, gjin wille

Dy suver bliuwt—ei liz dyn leed den ôf.

Hwent sjuch, ien bliuwt aloan dyn dagen by:

Ast wirch bist, gean ta my: myn herte is sêft;

Ast woune waerdst, scil ik dy ring genêze.

Meije ek Idoena laitsje, ik hâld fen dy,

En eltse stoun scil ’t bêste fen myn krêft

Yn soarchs’me noed stil om dyn wegen wêze.

OP MEMME JIERDEI. 21

Aug. ’17.

I.

Nou rêst hwet út; de sêfte stoel stiet ré, En roazen rûke, as op dizz’ dei foreale; Midsimmer wijt de keamer ta in seale

Sa ljocht en rom, as ’t glânzgjen oer de sé.

Foar ’t finster bloeit it blauwe blomte yn eale

Fornoeging om de blide dei. Bûnt fé

Giet weidzjend yn de greiden fier, en ’t swé

Fen ’t goud-hea rûkt as wijreek yn ús seale.

Sa is Jins dei, ljocht, krêftich as Jins wêzen; Wynt silvren tried ek yn Jins hier, Jins moed

Wirdt yn de kjeltme fen de froast nea fêrzen.

In ljochter Geast hat oer ús wrâldwei noed; Hwa’t lyk as Jy det tankjend wit, hat lêzen

It boek fen ’t wiere, en libbet bliid en froed.

II.

Nou rêst hwet út: faek wier Jins dei sa drok!

De jierren wierne as weagen yn it wide, Fol krêft en preal en diigre striid; Jo bide

Great, weardich wirk, gjin sêft-swiet dreame-lok.

Sims wier Jins soarch in pleach, Jins ljeafde in jok

Nea twiivlen Jy, Jins hert hat nea binide; Sa rêst dizz’ dei hwet út fen bann’ger tiden, In blide lins, in skoft fen oantins-lok.

Ja, ’t libben easke krêft fen Jo, dy’t hiel

Allinne yn wide romten stridend stiene, Fen neat skewield, de iens’mens as Jins diel.

Mar hwet Jins warbre hannen diger diene, Jins bern forjit it ninter; yn syn siel

Bliuwt al Jins soarch yn oantins fêst foriene.

Ik wit, Jy tinke hjoed om him, hwaens each,

Ienris ús ljeafste treast, tobriek yn lijen,

Jins man, myn Heit—de nacht bigloep him mijen

En diek him hoeden mei hjar deadlik reach.

’k Hear yet syn stimme, yet syn trêd; ho teach

Hy sterk en fêst oer ’t skymrich paed! Yn swijen

Droech hy syn leed, yn krêft oerwoun er ’t lijen—

Hy rêstgje sêft, dy’t fen ús ierde teach.

Mar sjuch, hy is yn my wer riisd. Syn bern

Hat fen syn geast, is skepen nei syn byld,

En hwet forstoar, riist nei it ljocht omhegen.

Sa bliuwt syn ljeafde en wêzen ús biskern,

En ’t is, as gean wy dêr’t in hoedzjend skyld

Us wegen dekt, lyk wy bitrouwend fregen.

Yn Fryslân is de simmer-jountiid ljocht

Fen goud’ne glâns en lij fen dream en wille; It beamte rûz’t, fen wiffe gloede oertrille,

Sêft eft in dreame-prins syn ljeafde oertocht.

Elts lûd giet hoar oer miede en wei, as brocht

Fen kleard’re wyn; it gea is frjemd forstille—

Den ’t jounlet út in fiere toer, forsille

Oer ’t iep’ne mêd, dêr ’t ljurkje rêst al socht.

Mem, ljeave, wêz’ Jins jountiid lyk by ’t simmer

Yn Fryslân ’t greate ljocht ta rêst him set, Yn sêfte steat en preal en bliid geglimmer—

Wêz ien, dy’t ek yn joun de frede met,

Fyn yn sa’n rêst Jins treast en blidens jimmer—

Dêrta myn liet as silvrich jountiidslet.

IEPENBIERING.

I.

In blom dy’t hjar ûntjaen wol, middeis ier, As hiel de simmerloft yn ljochtgoud driuwt, Wylst in swietrook’ge wyn hjar kroane omwiuwt

En mijen iepenteart hjar dimm’ne sier,

Sa wrakslet ek myn skamte tsjin, dy’t bliuwt

Al bounzet yn myn hert midsimmer’s tier

Sa iep’net hjar myn siele, têd en swier, Dy’t twiivlet en bitrout, dy’t freegjend leaut.

De gûchel-wrâld giet yn hjar steatsklaed skûl

En dekt hjar ta, is ’t liif mar efkes bleat, Hwent hjar ôfstjitlikheit tobarnt hjar, fûl;

Mar ik, heech steande yn simmer’s keine steat, Jow bliid my bleat, forspij èn skaed èn skûl, Liz ’t lêste weefsel ôf en eangje neat.

II.

Ik bin de geast fen Ienlikheit, dy’t sêft

Oan koele ich syn swietste tiid fordreamt, Sêft glimkjend dêr’t de wjitt’ring noegjend streamt

En speegljend yn it wiet mei goud’ne trêft;

Hwaens mûle neat as swiete mearkes neamt, As lyljes blinkend op in blauwe grêft; Hysels himsels genôch; in himel-krêft

Hwaens weltich ryk gjin peal noch beam biseam’t.

’k Bin skou fen minske-wrâld en dûk my rêd

Mids grien strewel, sa faek in swiere trêd

De ienlikheit fen wâld en stream tobrekt—

En ’k wit in boarne yn waeijend krûd, dêr’t stil

By jountiid, as it deiljocht dwyndlje scil, In hill’ge nimf hjar greate wizens sprekt.

Ik bin de frjeon fen de swiermoed’ge Prins

Dy’t tinzenleas fier doarmet nêst it wiet,

Dêr’t menn’ge stoarm oermoedich âljend stiet,

En ’t skom-wiet spat, al-ivich, sûnder lins;

Dy’t sliepleas rêst, safaek de deitiids-grins

De swarte nacht fen bleke jountiid skiedt,

En dreamend sjongt in al to frjemd fortriet

Fen fiere langsten, sûnder doel en tins;

Dy’t húvret oer syn kliene lea, safaek

Mei eage-ljocht fen fjûr en rou gelaek

It reade minster fen de hertstocht riist;

’k Bin frjeon fen de swiermoed’ge Prins, hwaens each,

Hjel-blau en drôf, to djip yn ’t hert my seach

En my yn greate ljeafde en twivel tiist.

IV.

Ik hoedzje yn myn herte it frjeonskips-fjûr

Fen âlde goaden my bitroud; de wyn

Bliest rou en kâld myn froast’ge noasters yn

En gounzet om myn herte, oerginstich, njoer—

Mar sterker is myn herte as stiel, gjin kloer

Tobrekt syn doar, gjin froastwyn krûpt it yn; Yn iiv’gens waermjend hoedet it de skyn

Fen ’t hillich ljocht, bitroud fen ’t Albistjûr.

Sêft barnt dit fjûr, in wite lampe lyk

By jountiid strieljend efter read gerdyn, Sa skynt it yn myn herte, feilich, frij—

En ’t skynt myn swakten sterk, myn earmoed ryk, Mar sims, as bûten gûlt in boazer wyn, Den, efkes, flikkret it en skroeit it my.

V.

Ik nim it moaije al laitsjend oan myn boarst, Hwêrdet myn wei my nocht en blomte biedt; Ik nim, en sjong in lang ûndogensk liet

Fen hwet myn siele as eindom easkje doarst.

Nea haw ik twiivle by myn kar: ik moast.

Hwet great en moai is, is fen my; ús ierd’

Mei fûgels, blomte en ljocht, mei ljeafde en liet, ’k Nim alles laitsjend oan myn ljeavjend boarst.

Hwet d’ earmen brea, hwet siken is it krûd, Hwet klaeijing kâlden is en doarmers ’t ljocht, It iennichst-need’ge, it moaije is it my—

Heil Ierde, Ljeafde, Ljocht! In hillich lûd

Hat my de wytging fen Jim miening brocht: Sûnt is de nacht my dei, it âlde nij.

VI.

Myn eagen drage it ljocht fen moarn. Jim bern

Fen Fryslân’s pleatsen, rêstend mids de steat

Dy’t kening Simmer oer Jim grêften geat, Forstean myn stim! Jim is hwet greats biskern.

Hwent yn de nacht seach ik in gielich read

Det ljochter waerd en dijde en woechs... En hen!

Yn poarpren dage is hiel it East forlern,

De iiv’gens riist en fen de nacht bliuwt neat.

Ik steande op himel’s koopren toer, sjuch mear: It heitlân frij, de minsken bliid en rjucht, De marren great en ljocht, de loften klear—

Ik bin in preester dy’t yn ’t iiv’ge sjucht, En nearne is nacht noch nearens: Fryslân’s Hear

Is in wirkdiedich God dy’t wûnders docht.

As mêd de jountiid leit oer daujend gea

En ’t lânfolts nei de klinten teach, en tear

Oer d’ iepen mieden klinkt, forkleare en hear, It silvren let fen stille jountiids-bea,

Den riis ik tankjend op fen ’t rûkend hea

En jow my nei it tsjerkje ta, dêr’t klear

It Angelus út weiklonk, God ta ear’,

En ’k wit, ’k bin lyts en dochs wier ’k greater nea.

En yn de hern’ dêr’t troch biskildre glês

It ljocht as bloed falt op in stien-blank krús,

Dêr knibblje ik del en stamm’rje in tankjend wird.

Him staette yn ’t hert de wrede wrâld hjar mês

En Hy forjoech ’t... En ’k longrje nei it thús

Dêr’t Him en hiel Syn foltsen heil bean wirdt.

Nou kear ik yn ta Dy, great-machtich God, Hwaens hearlikheit myn lyts bigryp oergiet;

Hwent folle sei ’k yn dit forklearjend liet

Fen ho’st my skoepst en fen myn talein lot,

En ’k neamde my mei menn’ge namme en ’k hiet

My sjonger, preester, noeder fen in skat, En ’k like sels my great, my byldzjend det

Ik mids de kenings fen Dyn wrâldrom siet

Dennoch forswige ik yet myn swiidste rom, Ien, great en heech, o Hear, as ierdske tael

Hast net bineame doar, fen Dy biskern,

Hwent mear as ik as bard en preester kom, Bin ik, nei ’t great ûnthjit fen ’t âld forhael

—En ’t is in saed fen himelsk lok—Dyn Bern.

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