He, who grown aged in this world of woe,
In deeds, not years, piercing the depths of life,
So that no wonder waits him; nor below
Can love or sorrow, fame, ambition, strife,
Cut to his heart again with the keen knife
Of silent, sharp endurance: he can tell
Why thought seeks refuge in lone caves, yet rife
With airy images, and shapes which dwell
Still unimpair'd, though old, in the soul's haunted cell.

Godt sagt! (2) Varsle Svar

Sist sett

Kirsten LundReadninggirl30ToveEmil ChristiansenKristine LouiseRufsetufsasveinEivind  VaksvikLabbelineVegardBjørg Marit TinholtPiippokattaSigrid NygaardTheaSolJane Foss HaugenBerit RLeseberta_23Tine SundalMarenSiri Ann GabrielsenKarin BergSynnøve H HoelLeseaaseAstrid Terese Bjorland SkjeggerudKristin71Odd HebækRoger MartinsenJarmo LarsenBente NogvaIngvild STanteMamieAnniken LTorHarald KLene AndresenHeleneErlend Rødal VikhagenRisRosOgKlagingWilliam Billison