(written in her fifteenth year)

Life is but a troubled ocean, 
     Hope a meteor, love a flower
Which blossoms in the morning beam, 
     And whithers with the evening hour. 

Ambition is a dizzy height, 
     And glory, but a lightning gleam; 
Fame is a bubble, dazzling bright, 
    Which fairest shines in fortune’s beam. 

When clouds and darkness veil the skies, 
    And sorrow’s blast blows loud and chill, 
Friendship shall like a rainbow rise, 
    And softly whisper—peace, be still.

This poem is in the public domain. 

for DMK

When I thought it was right to name my desires,
what I wanted of life, they seemed to turn
like bleating sheep, not to me, who could have been
a caring, if unskilled, shepherd, but to the boxed-in hills
beyond which the blue mountains sloped down
with poppies orange as crayfish all the way to the Pacific seas
in which the hulls of whales steered them
in search of a mate for whom they bellowed
in a new, highly particular song
we might call the most ardent articulation of love,
the pin at the tip of evolution,
modestly shining.
                                    In the middle of my life
it was right to say my desires
but they went away. I couldn’t even make them out,
not even as dots
now in the distance.  
                                         Yet I see the small lights
of winter campfires in the hills—
teenagers in love often go there
for their first nights—and each yellow-white glow
tells me what I can know and admit to knowing,
that all I ever wanted
was to sit by a fire with someone
who wanted me in measure the same to my wanting.
To want to make a fire with someone,
with you,
was all.

Copyright © 2017 by Katie Ford. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on March 15, 2017, by the Academy of American Poets.

translated from the Danish by Jennifer Russell and Sophia Hersi Smith

Once:
a room
a typewriter
a job
an alarm clock
a loneliness
a hope.

Now:
an apartment
a summerhouse
things
a husband
three children
status
friend
lover
housekeeper
neglected
graves
hairdresser
psychiatrist
money
complication
lack of
joy.

Good things come
to those who wait
my mother said
longing and
understanding
came to her
too late.
She died in
the nursing home
knowing
no one.

People misunderstand
each other for
the most part.
She had
beautiful hands.
Unnoticed
life slipped away.

Excerpted from THERE LIVES A YOUNG GIRL IN ME WHO WILL NOT DIE: Selected Poems by Tove Ditlevsen. Published by Farrar, Straus and Giroux. Copyright © 1939, 1942, 1947, 1955, 1961, 1969, 1973, 1978 by Tove Ditlevsen and Gyldendal, Copenhagen. English translation and Translators’ Note copyright © 2025 by Sophia Hersi Smith and Jennifer Russell. All rights reserved.