Sweden's Laureate: Selected Poems of Verner von Heidenstam/The Cradle-Songs of Goldilocks
THE CRADLE-SONGS OF GOLDILOCKS.
I.Seek, little Goldilocks, to and fro.Where should our thoughts be flying?Dark is thy father's bed and low,Grasses wave when the night-winds blow,Softly above him sighing.All of me that was dear to him,Braided tresses heavy and dimOver my jacket straying;All that I loved in him the while,Lofty brow and the mischievous smileOver his curved lips playing;All that in either could set a-danceThe other's pulses and voice and glanceIs in thy life united.Oh my son, my belovèd son,Vainly the world with curse and stoneLawless love would have blighted.Lawless love, which even IWept for, has sprung into blossom now.On toward the future it goes; it is thou,'Tis a race that will never die.
II.(Mumble, tumble, bumble-bee!)In a spider-woven tentUnder shining raindrops bent, Beetle ladies form a ringRound Miss Ladybird,And, when she says anything,Smirk at every word,Bow at what they've heard.Grasses all the meadow throughWear wee bells of heavenly blue,And some hundred ants there, too.Listen from behind the stalks.Hark now when the lady talks!
(Mumble, tumble, bumble-bee!)Watchman Glow-worm, bring me hereThe largest bee that grazes near.Lift the saddle down with speed,Let your skilful handsDeck with plumes the gallant steedFit for my commands.Ride through all my lands.Take as helm a silken gayChrysalis of silver-gray.If you hear a cradle sway,Step out on the sill of tin,Raise your lamp and enter in.
(Mumble, tumble, bumble-bee!)Where will be her infant bed,Where the crib to lay her head?—Aye, the little one, the sameGoldilocks shall win, Who will share his life, his name.When she's found, send inTidings with a din.Blow your fairy horn with power,Clarion in the morning hour.Wake then, guardian of my bower,Seize the blue-bell stalks and swingUntil every one shall ring.
III.Sift the golden barley.Many a grain is not of gold,But the sieve that strains themAlways then retains them.Soon we've half the sack will hold.But to whom, now, grant it?Grain is for the miller's box.Nay, but I will plant it,And my garden 's Goldilocks.
Sift the golden barley.When the seed is springing,Dream-sylphs in the moonlight fair,To my garden winging,Pray as at an altar there.Soon the leaves are riftedBy a soldier's leveled spear,Golden on his liftedFinger starry gleams appear.
Sift the golden barley.From his horse a lion's hideHangs. A thought yon star is.And the soldier in his prideEnvoy from afar is.Dream-sylphs, though, that hoveredPluck the barb from out the breastWhich thin veils had coveredVainly when the spear was pressed.
Sift the golden barley.Stained with blood, the tenderMaidens bend the spear of thought,Till upon their slenderKnees to rosy harps 'tis wrought.Of the star-beams featlyNext they spin the strings, and ayeThrough his lifetime sweetlyUnto Goldilocks will play.
IV.May east or may west the great castle be spiedWhere no one is watching or dwelling?The grumbling rain in a foamy gray tideFrom the rusty roof-spouts is welling.Now, weather-cock, turn in the wind and harkWhat the rain-spouts sing as the day grows dark.—"Hoohoo!" comes his crow out-swelling.
A daughter of earth came merrily upIn a ship that with bricks was freighted.She built then the walls from cellar to top,While her tears with her smiles were mated.A pink doll sat at the table and ateWith candies instead of eggs on her plate,"That 's good!" said the doll, elated.
While the doll was eating, and myrtle was strewedIn the chamber, our queen was movingTo the open spinet with pensive mood,Her wide eyes wondrous and loving.On the lid by their flocks in the blossomy springWere shepherd and shepherdess reveling."I know," said the roof-stork, approving.
Deserted since then is each stair and room.If doubtful she turns the key there,Amid hats and cloaks she hunts in the gloomFor what memories still may be there.The fairest she takes in her arms alongAnd weaves of the memories Goldilocks' song."That 's life!" cries the cock with glee there.
V.On a ferny hill-crest lo!Now the sun-ball pauses.Goldilocks and mother go O'er the shining mosses. Goldilocks will bravely chooseOn that ball to journey.Well, put on your wooden shoesOr the sun will burn ye.
What 's the sun? A ball of woolWound when threads unravelFrom an overladen spool.Now it starts to travel.Feel the winds how strong they blow!Nothing you can hold to.I've the thread you're tied on, though;Laugh, then, and be bold, too!
Off the ball bounds, far abroadGolden sparks are shaken.—Stubble snaps along the roadWhere my steps are taken.Whitened boughs like monstrous bonesHere the earth encumber.Hark! it seemed from yonder stonesSomething sighed in slumber.
Now a dog in brushwood dimSniffs and starts a-growling.—Off in space beyond Earth's rimYou by this are rolling.Where 's your laughter taken flight?Does the darkness cover Now your eyes, with starry nightUnder you and over?
Apsarases, nymphs of air,In celestial dances,Veiled in beams of moonlight, bearEach a lamp that glances.Wrought of fragrant cloud-stuff they,When the gods were strewingStar-dust of the Milky WayFor their nectar-brewing.
These go searching in a ringNever far asunder,And each lamp 's a world, a thingFit for highest wonder.But your ball, with whizzing dinDownward, downward gliding,Nears an isle behind a thinMist-spun trellis hiding.
Blue Elysium lies outspreadBy the myrtle strand there.You may roam among the dead,Take them by the hand there.Each one has the will to teach,By his lore to guide you.In your life thereafter eachStill will walk beside you.
Old Diogenes stumbles out,Bow-legged, brown and hairy,From his tub with raucous shout:"Butterfly, be wary!You're all giddy and aglow;Water 's in the sand, lad,And the finest cup I knowIs the scooping hand, lad."
Saladin in iron coatWaits you swart, each crimsonRuby gleaming as a floatFrom the lake it swims on."Though my iron boots are meetFor no small foot's wearing,Take and put them on your feet.See! your shoes are charring."
Next you hear the Sibyl's croak.All her mantle 's yellowFrom the clouds of sulphur smoke:"Soon you'll know, young fellow,—When into my well your ballDrops, with sulphur reeking,—What the nymphs have sought, what all,All of us are seeking."
From the well a voice oppressedCries: "With ardor manyMen gaze into their own breast. Boy, we seek for anyChild who, man, shall lift the sunFrom the mists' dark hollow.Goldilocks, if you're the one,Lead us, and we follow!"
Now the ball has gone its trackTo the farthest tether,In a minute I'll wind backSun and you together.Naked, star-eyed, you alight,Your hot steed forsaking.Well, good-morning! Day is bright.Goldilocks is waking.