Unrestful rest and aching drowsiness,
Never a leaf to stir in tree or grass,
The sands of time pass slowlier through the glass,
And in its brilliant, many-colored dress
The valley lies, all dumb and motionless,
As if the angel of the Lord did pass
Leaving behind no trace of life. Alas,
This is a summer of great weariness!

For I must wither in this tropic fire,
These sickly fruits and blossoms I must dread,
And on my heart has seized a great desire
For the swift winds that lash my Northern home,
Where brave men are of fair-haired women bred,
Where heroes love and where the Vikings roam.