Erik Axel Karlfeldt (1864–1931)
The black woods murmur
like psalm singing around the leaning cross of the fathers,
and dull as a watchful bumblebee
behind the ridges fades the Avesta rapids.
Than the wind chimes creak at the mine,
and the hammers peck at the iron of the furnaces,
but the spov sleeps on the tuft,
and the ducks rest on resting ponds.
Now I greedily wanted to collect
all the nejden’s dreamy dancing and singing
and the memories, young and old,
who sing tonight like life once,
now I wanted to capture the scents,
that pours from the spring night’s fermenting brew,
and take you on my long,
my uncertain path, you my Folkarebygd.
I walk between larch crosses almost,
I follow your stream, as in meekness and calmness
goes forward between the crags of the rocks
and sandy banks, where the swallows live.
Peace surrounds the friendly Dales,
but the stone stands tall by Brunnbäck’s river
and proud in his dumbness speaks
about power, which knows how to help itself in times of need.