Sweden's Laureate: Selected Poems of Verner von Heidenstam/The Slumbering Sister
THE SLUMBERING SISTER.
Though through the door the morning sun glows red,
Yet she, our cherished one, whom all night long
We lulled to sleep with flute-notes and with song
Has not awakened. Is she dead?
Yet she, our cherished one, whom all night long
We lulled to sleep with flute-notes and with song
Has not awakened. Is she dead?
Stifled by incense fumes, behold!
She lies here,—incense that our love of old
Burnt to her as around some holy grave.
Without avail we sought to deck her form
In the fair robe her sister's limbs made warm;
Cold, it slips down, the garment that we gave,
And leaves exposed her lifeless frame.
She's dead, lo! Sweden was her name.
She lies here,—incense that our love of old
Burnt to her as around some holy grave.
Without avail we sought to deck her form
In the fair robe her sister's limbs made warm;
Cold, it slips down, the garment that we gave,
And leaves exposed her lifeless frame.
She's dead, lo! Sweden was her name.
'Tis in a house of mourning that we guest,
And funeral ale 's the drink with which we feast.
Deafly she slumbers, chin upon her breast,
The while her sister, Norway, in the west
Rises at daybreak. Hear her song ascending!
She hails the new day till we all have wondered
At her brave words. From hundred mouths to hundred
Through distant regions they re-echo still.
But she whom we love sleeps here chill.
And funeral ale 's the drink with which we feast.
Deafly she slumbers, chin upon her breast,
The while her sister, Norway, in the west
Rises at daybreak. Hear her song ascending!
She hails the new day till we all have wondered
At her brave words. From hundred mouths to hundred
Through distant regions they re-echo still.
But she whom we love sleeps here chill.
Let us depart and no more waste our youth
In empty funeral speech and threnody.
Come, break your flutes to pieces on your knee.
Who would play music to the dead, forsooth!
We do not lean a hot and feverish head
Upon a breast that death makes hard and chill.
No, in life's turmoil we'd forget the dead
For whom of old our hearts with love could thrill.
We seek our living at the stranger's gate.
Men ask: "What has your home-land done of late?
Is not her fame the goal of your ambition,
Her strife, her toil, in small things as in great?"
Our silence tells our sharp contrition.
In empty funeral speech and threnody.
Come, break your flutes to pieces on your knee.
Who would play music to the dead, forsooth!
We do not lean a hot and feverish head
Upon a breast that death makes hard and chill.
No, in life's turmoil we'd forget the dead
For whom of old our hearts with love could thrill.
We seek our living at the stranger's gate.
Men ask: "What has your home-land done of late?
Is not her fame the goal of your ambition,
Her strife, her toil, in small things as in great?"
Our silence tells our sharp contrition.
How empty year succeeds on empty year,
How comfort palls, wherever we may roam,
If our life passes far away from home!
But of our flutes we build for her a bier
And lift her up from where, supine, she lay,
Whispering softly meanwhile at her ear
That in the world already dawn shows clear.
Her borrowed garments then we cast away.
Remorsefully we tramp out with our tread
The incense, bearing her with songs instead
Out of the stuffy alcove deep
Unto the threshold where the dawn wind blows,
And the first light tinges her cheek with rose.
She is not dead; she does but sleep.
How comfort palls, wherever we may roam,
If our life passes far away from home!
But of our flutes we build for her a bier
And lift her up from where, supine, she lay,
Whispering softly meanwhile at her ear
That in the world already dawn shows clear.
Her borrowed garments then we cast away.
Remorsefully we tramp out with our tread
The incense, bearing her with songs instead
Out of the stuffy alcove deep
Unto the threshold where the dawn wind blows,
And the first light tinges her cheek with rose.
She is not dead; she does but sleep.