Full resolution (TIFF) - On this page / på denna sida - The Midsummer Festival in Lacksand.
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the planks creaked, the boards splashed, the
water rose, and murmured and roared, and
so we got over where the road slants upwards
towards the town. Close opposite here the
last year’s May-pole still stood with withered
flowers. How many hands that bound these
flowers are now withered in the grave?
It is far prettier to go up on the sloping
bank along the elv, than to follow the straight
high-road into the town. The path conducts
us, between pasture fields and leaf trees, up to
the parsonage, where we passed the evening
with the friendly family. The clergyman himself
was but lately dead, and his relatives were
all in mourning. There was something about
the young daughter – I knew not myself what
it was – but I was led to think of the delicate
flax flower, too delicate for the short northern
summer.
They spoke about the Midsummer festival
the next day, and of the winter season here,
when the swans, often more than thirty at
a time, sit (motionless themselves) on the elv,
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