Poem without a melody #7363
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A poem without a melody. A poem by Reinhardt Reinhardtsson.
Ævar R. Kvaran writes an introduction: A few words about the author.
Reinhardt Reinhardtsson was born in Mjófjörður and spent his childhood there. He then lived in the village of Norðfjörður for a number of years. He was said to be of Norwegian descent.
At forty weeks old, Steinn Jónsson, then a well-known nursery teacher in Mjóafjörður, took this little orphaned boy into foster care. They then shared the blessings of life and its gifts for 43 years.
Reinhardt's wife was Ólöf Ögmundsdóttir from Þistilfjörður. The couple lived in Reykjavík for most of their lives, where they ran the Efnalaug Austurbœjar with its branches.
Nordfjordur
Again I see the beautiful fjord,
beautiful blue, deep, wide
dozing tightly in the embrace of the hills;
stay vigilant
wrapped in the glorious dawn fire
and the red fur of the back skin
the mountains are steep and sky-high.
Egils the Red's settlement spreads
faces from coast to heath,
streams sparkle, waterfalls foam;
A mountain breeze sweeps across the meadows.
Sees the end of summer
black brown Skuggahliðar
lift the skylight closer.
Sings softly on silver strings
summer poems by fields and meadows
The river is clear. Sweet and long.
The green islets listen.
Up by the cold sea sand
The ages tune their harps;
The cape is white and the cloak is blue.
Over the countryside I glance;
most of the place names I teach;
of the bright glacier under the forehead
I see Fannadal as beautiful.
Drop pools with brave sons
My mind dwells on hopes,
When I am in the mountains, I resemble a hall.
Temples, you worshiped pagan times,
A sharp fire has stirred the people,
So many streams of blood flowed in wars
and the roar of the battle echoed through the air.
Here is a story from its cradle,
which until our days
crowns the warrior's glory.
I hear church bells ringing,
clergymen sing elaborate masses;
the memories are renewed
up the beautiful Skorrastaður.
Here was generosity and chieftaincy,
From here it was as bright as day
The sun of faith, which is setting.
The farms are scattered throughout the flower fields
steep mountain slopes below
reminding of childhood joys,
all too quickly, which passed by.
Times change; houses rise;
harrows and plows the fields expand.
However, the old look can be seen.
We bear under the feet of the rock
The town grows from ancient roots.
Forward, let's break new ground,
The commandment of our time is.
A light burden of soft backs,
lift the heaviest Gretti sticks
elfarfoss and heidahver.
The mountains rise high into the heath
mind lifted, and the deep blue
The circle of vision is wide, yet small
should not be forgotten; it should be respected.
A friendly country, each of you young;
I will sing you lullabies from age;
Blessings flow through the shore and the valley.
Ævar R. Kvaran writes an introduction: A few words about the author.
Reinhardt Reinhardtsson was born in Mjófjörður and spent his childhood there. He then lived in the village of Norðfjörður for a number of years. He was said to be of Norwegian descent.
At forty weeks old, Steinn Jónsson, then a well-known nursery teacher in Mjóafjörður, took this little orphaned boy into foster care. They then shared the blessings of life and its gifts for 43 years.
Reinhardt's wife was Ólöf Ögmundsdóttir from Þistilfjörður. The couple lived in Reykjavík for most of their lives, where they ran the Efnalaug Austurbœjar with its branches.
Nordfjordur
Again I see the beautiful fjord,
beautiful blue, deep, wide
dozing tightly in the embrace of the hills;
stay vigilant
wrapped in the glorious dawn fire
and the red fur of the back skin
the mountains are steep and sky-high.
Egils the Red's settlement spreads
faces from coast to heath,
streams sparkle, waterfalls foam;
A mountain breeze sweeps across the meadows.
Sees the end of summer
black brown Skuggahliðar
lift the skylight closer.
Sings softly on silver strings
summer poems by fields and meadows
The river is clear. Sweet and long.
The green islets listen.
Up by the cold sea sand
The ages tune their harps;
The cape is white and the cloak is blue.
Over the countryside I glance;
most of the place names I teach;
of the bright glacier under the forehead
I see Fannadal as beautiful.
Drop pools with brave sons
My mind dwells on hopes,
When I am in the mountains, I resemble a hall.
Temples, you worshiped pagan times,
A sharp fire has stirred the people,
So many streams of blood flowed in wars
and the roar of the battle echoed through the air.
Here is a story from its cradle,
which until our days
crowns the warrior's glory.
I hear church bells ringing,
clergymen sing elaborate masses;
the memories are renewed
up the beautiful Skorrastaður.
Here was generosity and chieftaincy,
From here it was as bright as day
The sun of faith, which is setting.
The farms are scattered throughout the flower fields
steep mountain slopes below
reminding of childhood joys,
all too quickly, which passed by.
Times change; houses rise;
harrows and plows the fields expand.
However, the old look can be seen.
We bear under the feet of the rock
The town grows from ancient roots.
Forward, let's break new ground,
The commandment of our time is.
A light burden of soft backs,
lift the heaviest Gretti sticks
elfarfoss and heidahver.
The mountains rise high into the heath
mind lifted, and the deep blue
The circle of vision is wide, yet small
should not be forgotten; it should be respected.
A friendly country, each of you young;
I will sing you lullabies from age;
Blessings flow through the shore and the valley.