This poem by Ekelöf (Swedish original: Ensam i natten) has followed me since I first read it. For me it is a description of the perfect solitude, stillness and writing. Magic.

The translation comes from http://www.ekelut.dk/seven/7en5.html

Alone at night

Alone at night I do best

alone with the secretive lamp

freed from the intrusive day

bent to a never-finished work

combinations of solitaire. Later

if ever this game is finished

I have the night ahead. Somewhere

change is drowsing over the cards. Somewhere

a truth has already been spoken

So why be uneasy? Can it ever

be repeated? Absent-minded

I want to listen to the wind at night

to the flutes of the Corybants

and to the talk of the eternal wanderers