My translation of "Det mörknar" by Bertel Gripenberg (1878 - 1947)
The breeze still rustles alders by the beach,
waves still ripple on the sand,
airy castles still glimmer out of reach
on the glowing evening strand.
Each wave still burns of blood and golden hue,
and gleaming foam runs ashore,
but soon night will demand its rightful due
and soon my voice is no more.
Soon colours and light are no longer found,
all splendour that was goes to sleep,
but from darkness mumbles a distant sound
and life still lives in the deep.
The darkening bay becomes dead and grey
and nothing remains to show.
But a secret life still lives in the deep,
a heart with its ache and woe.
There a war is fought, where hope does not smile,
a fight that no one sees or hears,
a fight without sword and bile
against weariness, darkness, and years.