From the poetry collection Efterlämnade dikter (1920)
It is said that a saint in faith, a prophet,
whose voice sounds far, like an ore, a cymbal,
but who do not know the secret of love,
he belongs to the numbers of the vain.
For every prophecy and psalm shall pass away
like a fan, like a smoke at the commandment of perdition,
but all that is filled with love shall endure
and live and be like God.
In love the stinging thistle becomes beautiful,
and May rain waters parched land,
and a rose may smell, a meadow turn green
in the middle of the burning sands of the desert.
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