The Nobel Prize site for Tomas Tranströmer features five of his poems in Swedish and in English translation by Robin Fulton.
The last of the featured five, “The Nightingale in Badelunda” reminds me of Keats and his figure of easeful death
But right here there is no time. Only the nightingale’s voice, the raw resonant notes that whet the night sky’s gleaming scythe.
From Keats’s “Ode to a Nightingale”
Now more than ever seems it rich to die,
To cease upon the midnight with no pain,
While thou are pouring forth thy soul abroad
In such an ecstasy!
Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain —
To thy high requiem become a sod.
Different and yet cutting a similar theme.
And so for day 2977