MY YEAR IN SWEDEN
An hour later in the kitchen
baking the bread. I would not mind the smell,
I rather liked it.
My bed was already cold - stout timber,
protection against the cold,
the snow of winter. Clothes and furs neatly hung,
my wife's winter furs,
her silk bodice
with silver thread,
tippet of squirrel-skin,
lace, red leather belt.
We climbed down,
said it did not matter,
sat down to a splendid supper,
home-made bread
and home-brewed ale.
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