There is a meadow in Swedenwhere I lie smitten,eyes stained with clouds'white ins and outs.
And about that meadowroams my widowplaiting a cloverwreath for her lover.
I took her in marriagein a granite parish.
The snow lent her whiteness,a pine was a witness.
She'd swim in the oval lake whose opalmirror, framed by bracken,felt happy, broken.
And at night the stubbornsun of her auburnhair shone from my pillowat post and pillar.
Now in the distanceI hear her descant.
She sings "Blue Swallow,"but I can't follow.
The evening shadowrobs the meadowof width and color.
It's getting colder.
As I lie dyinghere,
I'm eyeingstars.
Here's Venus;no one between us.
