With poppy wreaths in streaming hair,
And glares up sometimes at the sky,
And sometimes downward at the earth,
Distorts its ashen lips in mirth,
And weeps from its low-burning eye.
It comes and touches Axel’s brain,
And ever afterwards his feet
Pace round the grave with restless beat,
As once in saga-days the slain
Were wont to flit, and linger nigh