Full resolution (TIFF) - On this page / på denna sida - Upsala.
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spring roses had strown their leaves over her
coffined clay; the sweet music of her lips
sounded but in memory; the smile in her eyes
and around her mouth, was gone like the
sunbeams, which then shone on Upsala’s hills.
Her name in the greensward is grown over;
she herself is in the earth, and it is closed above
her; but the hill here, closed for a thousand
years, is open.
Through the passage which is dug deep into
the hills, we come to the funereal urns which
contain the bones of youthful kindred; the dust
of kings, the gods of the earth.
The old housewife, from the peasant’s cot,
has lighted half a hundred wax candles and
placed them in rows in the otherwise pitchy-dark,
stone-paved passage. It shines so festally
in here over the bones of the olden time’s
mighty ones, bones that are now charred and
burnt to ashes. And whose were they? Thou
world’s power and glory, thou world’s posthumous
fame – dust, dust like beauty’s rose,
laid in the dark earth, where no light shines;
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