The Nobel Prize in Literature 1974
Eyvind Johnson, Harry Martinson
I was small in the listening days.
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At late harvests toothless mouths told
of leprous marsh-spot in the seed and
the bitter bloom of ergot on the rye.
I grew cold at my childhood hearth
By Harry Martinson
From Nomad, 1931
Translated by Stephen Klass
Published with the permission of Eva Martinson
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