And this was not Uppsala any more,
But the lost garden where his boyhood reigned.
The little dwindling path at Journey’s End
Ran through the dark, into a path he knew.
Carl! Carl! Carl! Now where is that elfkin hiding!
Down by the lake, from the alders, only the red-cap
Whistled three notes. Then all grew quiet again.
Carl! O Carl! Her voice, though he could not answer,
Called him. He knew she was there, though he could not see her.
He stood and listened. The leaves were listening, too.