It saddens me that, after a couple of reads-through, I am not feeling any connection with the poem. It feels a bit like the pieces of deeply-felt juvenilia that one feels one cannot comment on for fear of injuring a wholly-sincere poet by betraying the tiny twitch at the corner of the mouth that rises unbidden at lines like "...in a clawed grip/ writhes the essence of my being". But that's (more or less) what the Swedish says.
I find the prose crib easier to make out. Here it is clear(er) that the poet is comparing her own apparent sunny sweetness with inner turmoil, but I'm still not quite clear about where the negative "how wouldn't you tumble" from the later part went.
I'm finding this one a bit overstated at the moment but will come back if, like Julie, I feel it calling to me.
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