"The Forest of Tiveden"
While silvery threads are trickling out
Of his panting muzzle and bearded chin.
Of his panting muzzle and bearded chin.
The haughty pine, as if in fear
Of the light, creeps close to the gravel here.
See the mountains! they rise not in splendid shapes
Of eternal snow, but are squat and gray;
They stand like beggars in thread-bare capes
That are dingy now since many a day.
And had we the murkiest words at hand
They were not dark or gloomy enow
To paint in verse that primeval land
Which is ever preaching: "Renounce, forsake!"
The peasant bites at his black rye cake,
And loose stones rattle beneath his plough.
How gray, how clad in joylessness
Are all of the scenes that meet me!
My native soil, in the ragged dress
Of poverty you greet me.
Of the light, creeps close to the gravel here.
See the mountains! they rise not in splendid shapes
Of eternal snow, but are squat and gray;
They stand like beggars in thread-bare capes
That are dingy now since many a day.
And had we the murkiest words at hand
They were not dark or gloomy enow
To paint in verse that primeval land
Which is ever preaching: "Renounce, forsake!"
The peasant bites at his black rye cake,
And loose stones rattle beneath his plough.
How gray, how clad in joylessness
Are all of the scenes that meet me!
My native soil, in the ragged dress
Of poverty you greet me.
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