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thou art a muser, a holy dreamer, and art very
beautiful. Wide forests are thy dress. Long bands
of blue waters and chains of blue hills border it.
Thou art so simple that the stranger sees not how
lovely thou art. Thou art poor, as the devout desire
to be. Thou sittest still, while Vänern’s waves wash
thy feet and thy crossed legs. To the left thou hast
thy mines and thy fields of ore; there is thy
beating heart. To the north thou hast the dark, lonely
regions of wilderness, of mystery, and there rests
thy dreaming head.
“When I behold thee, majestic, serious, mine
eyes fill. Thou art austere in thy beauty; thou art
meditation, poverty, resignation. Yet back of thine
austerity I see the gentle features of kindness. I
see and adore! If I but glance into thy deep forests,
if only the hem of thy garment touches me,
my spirit is healed. Hour after hour, year after
year, I have looked into thy holy countenance. What
mysteries art thou hiding under lowered eyelids,
thou spirit of resignation? Hast thou solved the
enigma of life and death, or art thou still
pondering it, holy giant? For me thou art the keeper of
great serious thoughts. But I see beings creeping
about upon thee, creatures who never seem to note
the majesty of earnestness on thy brow. They see
only the beauty of thy face and limbs, and are so
charmed that they perceive naught else.
“Woe is me, woe to us all, children of
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