Tomten - A swedish winters tale - TopicsExpress



          

Tomten - A swedish winters tale (1941). https://m.youtube/watch?v=3BVzYcuVg-c Deep in the grip of the midwinter cold The stars glitter and sparkle. All are asleep on this lonely farm, Deep in the winter night. The pale white moon is a wanderer, snow gleams white on pine and fir, snow gleams white on the roofs. The tomte alone is awake. Gray, he stands by the low barn door, Gray by the drifted snow, Gazing, as many winters he’s gazed, Up at the moon’s chill glow, Then at the forest where fir and pine Circle the farm in a dusky line, Mulling relentlessly A riddle that has no key. Rubs his hand through his beard and hair, Shakes his head and his cap. “No, that question is much too deep, I cannot fathom that.” Then making his mind up in a hurry, He shrugs away the annoying worry; Turns at his own command, Turns to the task at hand. Goes to the storehouse and toolshop doors, Checking the locks of all, While the cows dream on in the cold moon’s light, Summer dreams in each stall. And free of harness and whip and rein, Even Old Pålle dreams again. The manger he’s drowsing over Brims with fragrant clover. The tomte glances at sheep and lambs Cuddled in quiet rest. The chickens are next, where the rooster roosts High above straw filled nests. Burrowed in straw, hearty and hale, Karo wakens and wags his tail As if to say, “Old friend, “Partners we are to the end.” At last the tomte tiptoes in To see how the housefolk fare. He knows full well the strong esteem They feel for his faithful care. He tiptoes into the children’s beds, Silently peers at their tousled heads. There is no mistaking his pleasure: These are his greatest treasure. Long generations has he watched Father to son to son Sleeping as babes. But where, he asks, From where, from where have they come? Families came, families went, Blossomed and aged, a lifetime spent, Then-Where? That riddle again Unanswered in his brain! Slowly he turns to the barnyard loft, His fortress, his home and rest, High in the mow, in the fragrant hay Near to the swallow’s nest. The nest is empty, but in the spring When birds mid leaves and blossoms sing, And come with her tiny mate. Then will she talk of the journey tell. Twittering to all who hear it, But nary a hint for the question old That stirs in the tomte’s spirit. Now through cracks in the haymow wall The moon lights tomte and hay and all, Lights his beard through the chinks, The tomte ponders and thinks. Still is the forest and all the land, Locked in this wintry year. Only the distant waterfall Whispers and sighs in his ear. The tomte listens and, half in dream, Thinks that he hears Time’s endless stream, And wonders, where is it bound? Where is its source to be found? Deep in the grip of the midwinter The stars glitter and sparkle. All are asleep on this lonely farm, Late in this winter night. The pale white moon is a wanderer, snow gleams white on pine and fir, snow gleams white on the roofs. The tomte alone is awake. -Viktor Rydberg
Posted on: Tue, 23 Dec 2014 20:30:18 +0000

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