Erik Axel Karlfeldt

From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

Erik Axel Karlfeldt (July 20, 1864 – April 8, 1931) was a Swedish poet whose highly symbolist poetry masquerading as regionalism was popular and won him the Nobel Prize in Literature posthumously in 1931; he had refused it in 1918.

Karlfeldt was born into a farmer's family in Karlbo, in the province of Dalarna. Initially, his name was Erik Axel Eriksson, but he assumed his new name in 1889, wanting to distance himself from his father, who had suffered the disgrace of a criminal conviction. He studied at Uppsala University, simultaneouosly supporting himself by teaching school in several places, including the Stockholm suburb of Djursholm and a school for adults. After completing his studies, he held a position at the Royal Library of Sweden, in Stockholm, for five years.

In 1904 Karlfeldt was elected a member of the Swedish Academy and held chair number 11. In 1905 he was elected a member of the Nobel Institute of the Academy, and, in 1907, of the Nobel Committee. In 1912 he was elected permanent secretary of the Academy, a position he held until his death.

Uppsala University, Karlfeldt's alma mater, awarded him the title of Doctor honoris causa in 1917.

Contents 1 External links 2 His works in English 3 Song After Harvest 4 Maiden Maria

[edit] External links

• Biography at the Nobel e-Museum
• Short biography at nobel-winners.com
• Karlfeldt's collected works and a facsimile of a 1956 edition, both at Project Runeberg
• Pegasos Author's Calendar on Karlfeldt

[edit] His works in English

• Modern Swedish Poetry Part 1 (1929) - (trans. by C.D. Locock)
• Arcadia Borealis (1938) - (trans. by Charles Wharton Stork)
• The North! To the North! (2001) - (trans. by Judith Moffett, five poets including Karlfeldt)

[edit] Song After Harvest

Here dances Fridolin:

Oh, but he's full of the sweet red wine

And his acres' crops and his orchard's fruit

And the whirl of the waltz divine.

And over his elbows his coat-tail flops

As with each fair damsel in turn he hops,

Till spent on his bosom and blissfully mute,

Like a drooping poppy she drops.

And here dances Fridolin:

Nay, but he's full of old memories' wine,

For his sire and his grandsire were cheered of old

By the hum of that scraped violin.

But ye slumber, ye ancients, this festal night,

And numbed is the hand of your fiddler-wight,

And your lives and your times are a tale that is told

In music now sad, now bright.

But here dances Fridolin!

Look at your son, how strong, how fine!

He can talk with the yokel in yokel phrase,

With the learned quote line for line.

Thro' the new field swishes his scythe in June,

Like you he is glad for the harvest's boon,

And he lifts up his girl like a man of your race

To the bowl of the simmering moon.

Erik Axel Karlfeldt

English lyrics by C.D. Locock 1929

[edit] Maiden Maria

She comes across the meadowgrass near Sjugaretown.

She is a little maiden with cheek of petal down,

Yes, like almond-flow'r and rosebud, blooming far from road and town,

From rude and dusty footfall hidden.

Oh, what pathways have you wandered, that the sun has burnt you not?

And what are the dreams, Maria, in your tender heart and thought,

That your blood never burns, by passion bidden?

There glows a wondrous light about your bright uncovered hair

And your brow like yonder moon-bow is shining,

As over Bergsang's hills he moves high and white and fair

And gleams through hawthorn branches entwining.

The evening breezes cooling bring the columbines rest,

And little golden lily bells ring in the sabbath blest.

Soft sounds from colt and kid arise, from paddock, fold and nest,

Faint chirping from the bed of the swallow.

Now the youths and maids of Dalarna are walking two by two.

You are fair beyond the others, the adored of all are you,

Why alone, lost in thought, leave all to follow?

You're like a wond'ring maiden by her first communion stirred

Who in the silent Whitsun night doth waken

With beating heart remembering the words that she has heard,

While of the solemn rites she has partaken.

Turn back, turn back, Maria, now the evening is spent.

You've come too far alone, heed your mother's sad lament.

You're small and you are tender, like a twig of willow bent,

And in the wood roam bears — go not nigher!

Ah, the rose that you are holding is your token and your crest;

It was brought you by an angel from a garden heaven-blest:

You can tread on the serpent and the briar.

There glows a path of moonlight flung across the vast dark sky

To Siljan where the evening red grows dimmer . . .

You e'en could make your bridal way to Paradise on high

Upon that narrow bridge of light ashimmer.

Erik Axel Karlfeldt

English lyrics by Helen Asbury 1950

Preceded by Clas Theodor Odhner

Swedish Academy, Seat No 11 1904-1931

Succeeded by Torsten Fogelqvist