by Karin Boye

Your voice and your footsteps fall soft as dew on my working day.
Where I sit there is spring in the air around me from your living
       warmth.
You flower in my thought, you flower in my blood, and I wonder
       only
that my happy hands do not blossom into heavy roses.

Now the space of the everyday closes around us two, like a soft, 
      gentle mist.
Are you afraid of becoming a prisoner, are you afraid of drowning
        in the greyness?
Do not be afraid: in the everyday's innermost depth,
in the heart of all life,
there burns with quietly humming flames a deep, secret festival.