KARLFELDT.

Press, Volume LXVII, Issue 20412, 5 December 1931, Page 13

KARLFELDT.

THE NOBEL PRIZE AWARD. "Writing in tlvo New \ork "HeraldTribune'' on the award of the Nobel Prize i'or Literature to the Swedish poet, KarlleW't, Mr Charles Wharton Stork says that tho Academy's choice refreshingly upsets the "prevalent opinion" that the prize generally goes to writers ol' "very long and rather depressing novels." Karlfeldt's work lia.s hitherto been little known outside of his native Sweden, but it is of a sort which, if sympathetically translated, should have a wide appeal. Itpictures the country and people of his native province of Daleearlia, tho heart of Sweden's peasant life, where the fair-haired women still wear tho bright costumes familiar to us in tho paintings of Anders Zorn. The poet himself was of peasant stock, hut received a university training, i-o thai he unites primitive vigour with delicate mastery of form. That ho had the obstinate independence of his ancestry is witnessed by tho fact that when he was first awarded the prize ten years ago he declined it on the grounds that ho was read only in Sweden. ilo was again nominated early in tho present year, and after his sudden death the award was bestowed upon him fwsthumouslyWhat impresses one most in Karlfeldt's poetry is that he wrote not as an individual but as the spokesman of his world. He expressed tribal rather than personal feelings. His style; however, was often too rich in imagery to be fully grasped by an unlettered mind. This combination of simple feeling and decorative imagery gives tho poetry of Karlfeldt a charm that finds few parallels in English. Some of Browning's Italian poems, such as "A Toccata ot Galuppi," would come near to it it thev did not pass over into moralising. Tho following is a translation by Mr Stork of a poem of Karlfeldt's: THE MICROCOSM. I am of esrlh, am sltiKgish, cool, inert, Seasoned with age, though ever young st heart. Peep-rooted in mv soul, an autumn tree Rustles with songs ot parting, wistfully. I am of -water, cold as northland rains, Like frozen tears the ichor in my veins, My winter joy is clamorously outpoured When wine anil venison (leek the ample hoard. r am of air too. I am brilliant, cay. I walk us though in springtime every day. What was for Tears neglected and unseen, Breeze-quickened, re-arises frosh and groen. r am of fire, I nm hnt and parched. By the nnscttin; summer sun I'm scorched. Why was I not consumed by such a glow, I and my sum of elements, lons ogof