Born on this day July 20, 1864 in Karlbo, Sweden, Erik Axel Karlfeldt, the Swedish poet, who posthumously won the Nobel Prize in Literature in 1931, continues to have a lasting impact on audiences worldwide. His poetry, known for its rich evocative imagery and deeply rooted regionalism, has an enduring appeal that transcends geographical and cultural boundaries.
Karlfeldt’s work is primarily grounded in the traditions and landscapes of his homeland, Dalarna, a historical province in Sweden. His verses echo with the distinctive charm of Swedish folklore and rural life, imbued with an undercurrent of universal human emotions. This unique blend of the local and the universal is what makes Karlfeldt’s poetry resonate with readers from diverse backgrounds.
Moreover, Karlfeldt’s skillful use of language and his innovative poetic forms have also contributed to his lasting appeal. He was known for his meticulous craftsmanship and his richly detailed descriptions. These aspects of his work not only demonstrate his mastery of the poetic form but also contribute to the engaging quality of his verse.
It is not surprising that Erik Axel Karlfeldt’s poetry continues to resonate with audiences worldwide. His deeply evocative imagery, grounded in Swedish tradition yet universal in its emotional depth, combined with his masterful use of language and form, make his work a timeless classic. The rediscovery of Karlfeldt’s poetry offers readers fresh insights into the human condition and the enduring power of art to connect us across time and space.
Virgin Mary
She comes down the meadows at Sjugareby.
She’s a little hill with almond flower skin,
yes, like almond blossoms and rose hips far away from the road and the village,
where it never dusts and hikes.
Which paths have you walked so that the sun did not burn you?
What have you dreamed, Maria, in your young breast and felt,
that your blood does not burn like the others?
It shines so wonderfully from your bare hair,
and thy forehead is as the bow of the moon,
when over Bergsängsbackar he walks white and sloping
and shines through the spring beats.
Now the evening wind is cooling in the columbine’s trust,
and yellow lily bells ring holiday and peace;
barely gnaws the hem of the pasture, barely breaks the kid of the hem,
it barely beeps in swallow nests and groves.
Now Dalarna’s boys and girls go pair by pair:
you are chosen above others, you are desired by one where,
what do you go so alone and ponder?
You are like a virgin, coming from her first communion table,
who wants to stay awake on the quiet night of Pentecost
with all the trembling of his heart and think of those words
she felt and those under her got to taste.
Turn around, turn around, Maria, now the evening is late.
Your mother may mourn that you are wandering so alone.
You are small and fragile like the crotch arrow branch,
and in the forest goes the striking bear.
Alas, the rose you hold is your sign and your care,
it is brought by an angel from a blessed herb garden:
you can step on snakes and thorns.
Yes, that ray, which is so shining and long
from the stronghold of the evening root over Lake Siljan–
you could go to paradise tonight your wedding
on the narrow and trembling tiljan.
-Erik Axel Karlfeldt
Jungfru Maria
Hon kommer utför ängarna vid Sjugareby.
Hon är en liten kulla med mandelblommans hy,
ja, som mandelblom och nyponblom långt bort från väg och by,
där aldrig det dammar och vandras.
Vilka stigar har du vankat, så att solen dig ej bränt?
Vad har du drömt, Maria, i ditt unga bröst och känt,
att ditt blod icke brinner som de andras?
Det skiner så förunderligt ifrån ditt bara hår,
och din panna är som bågiga månen,
när över Bergsängsbackar han vit och lutad går
och lyser genom vårliga slånen.
Nu svalkar aftonvinden i aklejornas lid,
och gula liljeklockor ringa helgsmål och frid;
knappt gnäggar hagens fåle, knappt bräker fållans kid,
knappt piper det i svalbon och lundar.
Nu gå Dalarnas ynglingar och flickor par om par:
du är utvald framför andra, du är önskad av en var,
vad går du så ensam och begrundar?
Du är som jungfrun, kommen från sitt första nattvardsbord,
som i den tysta pingstnatt vill vaka
med all sitt hjärtas bävan och tänka på de ord
hon förnummit och de under hon fått smaka.
Vänd om, vänd om, Maria, nu blir aftonen sen.
Din moder månde sörja, att du strövar så allen.
Du är liten och bräcklig som knäckepilens gren,
och i skogen går den slående björnen.
Ack, den rosen, som du håller, är ditt tecken och din vård,
den är bringad av en ängel från en salig örtagård:
du kan trampa på ormar och törnen.
Ja, den strålen, som ligger så blänkande och lång
ifrån aftonrodnans fäste över Siljan–
du kunde gå till paradis i kväll din brudegång
på den smala och skälvande tiljan.
-Erik Axel Karlfeldt
Curated by Jennifer
