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206 pages, Unknown Binding
First published January 1, 1903
Whitsongs are Kalevala poetry screwed to the sticking point, ‘little’ tradition keyed up to take the strain of ‘great’ tradition. The tone is still there, with its alliterative hammering, its rich archaic vocabulary, its almost callous economy of phrase, but the pace is nore urgent--no repetitions, the synax leaping from line to line.
Kaleva the famous king
resolved to woo the matchless
bride of the mountain.
Hiisi’s maid with coal-black hair
wove a net out of her locks,
the woof out of her glances
and the warp out of her winks,
set her toils across the road,
captured the choice man.
go to the spruces of death,
to the thicket of the dead...
[he talks to his father’s grave about his repeated, terrified failures to be able to work in fields, at sea, at fire...]
Pain burst into the open:
‘O my father, take me too
with you to Kalma’s mansions,
for I am mamma’s dark child,
affrighted at birth,
I see horrors everywhere,
but most in the life of men.’
From beneath the turf a voice
rose, a word strayed from Tuoni:
‘Your fathers took fright before
and yet they lived out their time.
Desolate life’s morning is,
death’s evening more desolate.
Rooms are small in Tuonela,
underground chambers narrow,
no moon beams and no sun shines,
alone you’ll sit, alone step,
the worm sifts the wall-timber,
you yourself will sift yourself
in perpetual regret
that is bitter, hard to bear.’
The boy returned from Tuoni,
came, a quite man,
sat in his beloved house;
he stirred the fire in the hearth,
busied himself with farm work
with smiling lips would murmur
of forest spirits,
of water spirits:
went to sea, to the forest,
took a net and set a trap,
and thus he lived all his life,
not rejoicing or grieving,
piling up the days, as much
those coming as those passing,
the better much as the worse;
but the better ones on top.