The bard's song

Edith Södergran: The September Lyre

Mysterious moon!

In an hour you rise –

and golden everything

with African fantasies.

I stand with the lyre

in the darkness of the yard.

The King’s daughter in the tower

throws stars to me.

The wood lake smiles suddenly –

Oh, pearls, gold and silver! –

the capes lay

as eternal memories.

I stroke the stones of the roof with the hand

and laugh mockingly:

Day, what more do you have to add

on top of the song’s night?