Sthephan G. Stephansson Poetry


Lone Peak rears his bust to the beautiful sky,
And the bulrushes gaze on astounded.
The copsewood refuses to clamber so high
And the creepers lose footing around it.
And though the cold blasts ever beat without ruth
On his brow, in the strife he engages,
Unconquered he stands, as if courage and truth
Were carved from the rock of the ages.

First printed March 3, 1899

Translated by Paul Bjarnason

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