There is a meadow in Sweden 

where I lie smitten, 

eyes stained with clouds' 

white ins and outs. 


And about that meadow 

roams my widow 

plaiting a clover 

wreath for her lover. 


I took her in marriage 

in a granite parish. 

The snow lent her whiteness, 

a pine was a witness. 


She'd swim in the oval 

lake whose opal 

mirror, framed by bracken, 

felt happy, broken. 


And at night the stubborn 

sun of her auburn 

hair shone from my pillow 

at post and pillar. 


Now in the distance 

I hear her descant. 

She sings "Blue Swallow," 

but I can't follow. 


The evening shadow 

robs the meadow 

of width and color. 

It's getting colder. 


As I lie dying 

here, I'm eyeing 

stars. Here's Venus; 

no one between us.