A cycle of poems in four parts by Gustaf Fröding. It was published in 1896 in the collection of poems Stänk och flikar. Popularized in our time by the band Mando Diao's interpretation, which you can find at the bottom.
There is shimmer in the clouds and glitter in the lake,
there is light on the shores and the nose
and around stands the lovely forest green
behind the swaying grass of the meadows.
And with summer and beauty and forest winds
my hometown stands and greets me happily,
Greetings! - But where is my father's farm,
it is empty behind the row of maples.
It's empty, it's burnt, it's ravaged and cold,
where it lay, the hill lies bare,
but above that, memory goes with the wind cool,
and that memory is all that's left.
And it's like I saw a gable stand white
and a window standing open in it,
as the piano it sounded and a cheerful bit
of a song with a jaunty melody.
And it's like it's my father's voice,
when he was still happy and young,
before the song fell silent in his deathly sick chest
and his life became sad and heavy.
It's empty, it's burnt, I want to lie down
by the lake to hear his speech
of the old that passed away while time suffered,
about the old in the valley of the Alster.
And his sad and sorrowful answer he strikes,
but as faintly as if it were only dreamed:
"It's been thrown to the wind for twenty years,
it is dead and buried and forgotten.
Where you remember dear figures and visions,
where the emptiness stands desolate and bare,
and my eternal lullaby is all there is
of the old in the valley of the Alster."
And here is the grove, where the cuckoo cries,
small toes sprungo here
with bare feet and torn skirt
to pick the berries of the dung,
and here was shade and here was sun
and here there were plenty of evening primroses,
that grove is dear to me,
my childhood rushes there.
Here the path is narrower, here is the wilderness,
here the fairy tale ramble goes wild and loose,
here is the stone thrown by a mountain troll
against a Christ monk far in the hedenhös.
Here is the Wolf's yard of rice and stone rubble,
here the wolf's howl sounded shrill and wild,
Here sat little Ulva, the Wolf's daughter,
...ludenbarmad, crazy-eyed and trollish.
Here is the road to the land of happiness,
it is long and narrow and closed by thorns,
no sly master cat in boots
are there to show us, how the way goes.
King Lily of the Grove,
King Lily of the Valley is white as snow,
now mourns young king
King Lily of the valley he lowers
his sad head so heavy and wavy,
and the silver helmet shines
in the summer twilight faded.
Around the cobwebs of the stretcher
from the incense burner with flower dust
a whirligig slowly hovers,
all the forest is full of fragrance.
From the swaying crown of the birch,
from the rocking green house of the wind
small sorrowful tones,
all the forest is filled with rushes.
There's a messenger whizzing through the valley
about mourning among whispering leaves,
in the wide world of the forest
from the capital of the lily of the valley.
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