Produced by Marc D'Hooghe at http://www.freeliterature.org POEMS OF EMILE VERHAEREN. SELECTED AND RENDERED INTO ENGLISH BY ALMA STRETTELL. JOHN LANE THE BODLEY HEAD LONDON & NEW YORK 1915. INDEX INTRODUCTORY NOTE From "LES VILLAGES ILLUSOIRES" RAIN THE FERRYMAN THE SILENCE THE BELL-RINGER SNOW THE GRAVE-DIGGER THE WIND THE FISHERMEN THE ROPE-MAKER From "LES HEURES CLAIRES" I. VIII. XVII. XXI. From "LES APPARUS DANS MES CHEMINS" ST. GEORGE THE GARDENS SHE OF THE GARDEN From "LA MULTIPLE SPLENDEUR" THE GLORY OF HEAVENS LIFE JOY INTRODUCTORY NOTE. Emile Verhaeren, remarkable among of the brilliant group of writers representing "Young Belgium," and one who has been recognized by the literary world of France as holding a foremost place among the lyric poets of the day was born at St. Amand, near Antwerp, in 1855. His childhood was passed on the banks of the Scheldt, in the midst of the wide-spreading Flemish plains, a country of mist and flood, of dykes and marshes, and the impressions he received from the mysterious, melancholy character of these surroundings, have produced a marked and lasting influence upon his work. Yet the other characteristics with which it is stamped--the wealth of imagination, the gloomy force, the wonderful descriptive power and sense of colour, which set the landscape before one as a picture, suggest rather the possibility of Spanish blood in the poet's veins--and again, his somewhat morbid subjectivity and tendency to self-analysis mark him as the child of the latter end of our nineteenth century. Verhaeren entered early in life upon the literary career. After some time spent at a college in Ghent, he became a student at the University of Louvain, and here he founded and edited a journal called "_La Semaine_," in which work he was assisted by the singer Van Dyck, and by his friend and present publisher, Edmond Deman. He also formed, about this time, a close friendship with Maeterlinck. In 1881, Verhaeren was called to the Bar at Brussels, but soon gave up his legal career to devote himself entirely to literature. In 1883 he published his first volume of poems, and shortly afterwards became one of the editors of "_L'Art Moderne_," to which, as well as to other contemporary periodicals, he was for many years a contributor. In 1892 he founded, with the help of two other friends, the "Section of Art" in the "House of the People," a popular institution in Brussels, where performances of the best music, as well as lectures upon literary and artistic subjects, were given. In spite, however, of the work which all this entailed, and of the many interests created by his ardent appreciation of the various branches of art and literature, Verhaeren continued to labour unceasingly at his poetical work, and between 1883 and 1897 brought out successively eleven small volumes: _Les Flamandes, Les Moines, Les Soirs, Les Débâcles, Les Flambeaux Noirs, Les Apparus dans mes chemins, Les Campagnes Hallucinées, Les Villages Illusoires, Les Villes Tentaculaires, Les Heures Claires,_ and _Les Aubes_. Throughout this entire series the intellectual and spiritual development of the poet may be closely traced--from the materialism which pervades _Les Flamandes_, and the despairing pessimism and lurid emotion--the throes of a self-centred soul in revolt against fate--which are so powerfully portrayed in _Les Débâcles_ and _Les Flambeaux Noirs_, and are apparent even in the opening pages of _Les Apparus_ dans mes chemins--to the tender, hopeful mysticism which marks the latter poems in that volume, and the wonderful sympathy with Nature, even in her saddest aspects--the subtle power of endowing those aspects with a profound and ennobling symbolism, which characterise the most beautiful of the poems in Les Villages Illusoires. Les Heures Claires is the name given to a volume of love-songs, an exquisite record of golden hours spent in a garden at spring-time--spring-time in a double sense. The task of making an adequate and typical selection from a poet's work is always difficult, and in this case it has been decided to limit the field of selection, at least for the present, to the three last-named volumes, which embody what may, I think, be considered as Verhaeren's highest achievement in the realm of lyrical poetry. In style, Verhaeren is essentially the apostle of the "Vers libre"; and his handling of rhyme and rhythm, his coining of words where he finds the French vocabulary insufficient, have called down upon him some criticism from those of his French contemporaries who are sticklers for the older rules and more conventional forms of versification. But however this may be, it remains an undeniable fact that Verhaeren has at his command a rare and powerful poetic eloquence--a wealth of imagery, a depth of thought and a subtlety of expression which perhaps are not to be imprisoned behind the bars of a too rigid convention. English readers have already been accustomed by their own poets to the "vers libre," and it is not so much, therefore, for my adherence to this form, as for my failure adequately to render Verhaeren's peculiar and striking beauty of language, that I beg their indulgence for the following translations. POEMS From "LES VILLAGES ILLUSOIRES" RAIN Long as unending threads, the long-drawn rain Interminably, with its nails of grey, Athwart the dull grey day, Rakes the green window-pane-- So infinitely, endlessly, the rain, The long, long rain. The rain. Since yesternight it keeps unravelling Down from the frayed and flaccid rags that cling About the sullen sky. The low black sky; Since yesternight, so slowly, patiently. Unravelling its threads upon the roads. Upon the roads and lanes, with even fall Continual. Along the miles That 'twixt the meadows and the suburbs lie, By roads interminably bent, the files Of waggons, with their awnings arched and tall. Struggling in sweat and steam, toil slowly by With outline vague as of a funeral. Into the ruts, unbroken, regular, Stretching out parallel so far That when night comes they seem to join the sky. For hours the water drips; And every tree and every dwelling weeps. Drenched as they are with it. With the long rain, tenaciously, with rain Indefinite. The rivers, through each rotten dyke that yields. Discharge their swollen wave upon the fields. Where coils of drownèd hay Float far away; And the wild breeze Buffets the alders and the walnut-trees; Knee-deep in water great black oxen stand, Lifting their bellowings sinister on high To the distorted sky; As now the night creeps onward, all the land, Thicket and plain, Grows cumbered with her clinging shades immense. And still there is the rain, The long, long rain. Like soot, so fine and dense. The long, long rain. Rain--and its threads identical, And its nails systematical, Weaving the garment, mesh by mesh amain, Of destitution for each house and wall, And fences that enfold The villages, neglected, grey, and old: Chaplets of rags and linen shreds that fall In frayed-out wisps from upright poles and tall. Blue pigeon-houses glued against the thatch, And windows with a patch Of dingy paper on each lowering pane, Houses with straight-set gutters, side by side Across the broad stone gambles crucified, Mills, uniform, forlorn. Each rising from its hillock like a horn, Steeples afar and chapels round about, The rain, the long, long rain, Through all the winter wears and wears them out. Rain, with its many wrinkles, the long rain With its grey nails, and with its watery mane; The long rain of these lands of long ago, The rain, eternal in its torpid flow! THE FERRYMAN The ferryman, a green reed 'twixt his teeth, With hand on oar, against the current strong Had rowed and rowed so long. But she, alas! whose voice was hailing him Across the far waves dim. Still further o'er the far waves seemed to float, Still further backwards, 'mid the mists, remote. The casements with their eyes. The dial-faces of the towers that rise Upon the shore, Watched, as he strove and laboured more and more. With frantic bending of the back in two, And start of savage muscles strained anew. One oar was suddenly riven, And by the current driven, With lash of heavy breakers, out to sea. But she, whose voice that hailed him he could hear There 'mid the mist and wind, she seemed to wring Her hands with gestures yet more maddening Toward him who drew not near. The ferryman with his surviving oar Fell harder yet to work, and more and more He strove, till every joint did crack and start, And fevered terror shook his very heart. The rudder broke Beneath one sharp, rude stroke; That, too, the current drove relentlessly, A dreary shred of wreckage, out to sea. The casements by the pier, Like eyes immense and feverish open wide, The dials of the towers--those widows drear Upstanding straight from mile to mile beside The banks of rivers--obstinately gaze Upon this madman, in his headstrong craze Prolonging his mad voyage 'gainst the tide. But she, who yonder in the mist-clouds hailed Him still so desperately, she wailed and wailed, With head outstretched in fearful, straining haste Toward the unknown of the outstretched waste. Steady as one that had in bronze been cast, Amid the blenched, grey tempest and the blast. The ferryman his single oar yet plied. And, spite of all, still lashed and bit the tide. His old eyes, with hallucinated gaze, Saw that far distance--an illumined haze-- Whence the voice sounded, coming toward him still. Beneath the cold skies, lamentable, shrill. The last oar broke-- And this the current hurried at one stroke, Like a frail straw, towards the distant sea. The ferryman, with arms dropped helplessly Sank on his bench, forlorn. His loins with vain efforts broken, torn. Drifting, his barque struck somewhere, as by chance, He turned a glance Towards the bank behind him then--and saw He had not left the shore. The casements and the dials, one by one. Their huge eyes gazing in a foolish stare. Witnessed the ruin of his ardour there; But still the old, tenacious ferryman Firm in his teeth--for God knows when, indeed-- Held the green reed. THE SILENCE Ever since ending of the summer weather. When last the thunder and the lightning broke, Shatt'ring themselves upon it at one stroke, The Silence has not stirred, there in the heather. All round about stand steeples straight as stakes, And each its bell between its fingers shakes; All round about, with their three-storied loads, The teams prowl down the roads; All round about, where'er the pine woods end, The wheel creaks on along its rutty bed, But not a sound is strong enough to rend That space intense and dead. Since summer, thunder-laden, last was heard. The Silence has not stirred; And the broad heath-land, where the nights sink down Beyond the sand-hills brown. Beyond the endless thickets closely set, To the far borders of the far-away. Prolongs It yet. Even the winds disturb not as they go The boughs of those long larches, bending low Where the marsh-water lies, In which Its vacant eyes Gaze at themselves unceasing, stubbornly. Only sometimes, as on their way they move, The noiseless shadows of the clouds above. Or of some great bird's hov'ring flight on high, Brush It in passing by. Since the last bolt that scored the earth aslant, Nothing has pierced the Silence dominant. Of those who cross Its vast immensity, Whether at twilight or at dawn it be, There is not one but feels The dread of the Unknown that It instils; An ample force supreme, It holds Its sway Uninterruptedly the same for aye. Dark walls of blackest fir-trees bar from sight The outlook towards the paths of hope and light; Huge, pensive junipers Affright from far the passing travellers; Long, narrow paths stretch their straight lines unbent. Till they fork off in curves malevolent; And the sun, ever shifting, ceaseless lends Fresh aspects to the mirage whither tends Bewilderment Since the last bolt was forged amid the storm, The polar Silence at the corners four Of the wide heather-land has stirred no more. Old shepherds, whom their hundred years have worn To things all dislocate and out of gear, And their old dogs, ragged, tired-out, and torn. Oft watch It, on the soundless lowlands near, Or downs of gold beflecked with shadows' flight, Sit down immensely there beside the night. Then, at the curves and corners of the mere. The waters creep with fear; The heather veils itself, grows wan and white; All the leaves listen upon all the bushes, And the incendiary sunset hushes Before Its face his cries of brandished light. And in the hamlets that about It lie. Beneath the thatches of their hovels small The terror dwells of feeling It is nigh. And, though It stirs not, dominating all. Broken with dull despair and helplessness, Beneath Its presence they crouch motionless, As though upon the watch--and dread to see. Through rifts of vapour, open suddenly At evening, in the moon, the argent eyes Of Its mute mysteries. THE BELL-RINGER Yon, in the depths of the evening's track, Like a herd of blind bullocks that seek their fellows, Wild, as in terror, the tempest bellows. And suddenly, there, o'er the gables black That the church, in the twilight, around it raises All scored with lightnings the steeple blazes. See the old bell-ringer, frenzied with fear. Mouth gaping, yet speechless, draw hastening near. And the knell of alarm that with strokes of lead He rings, heaves forth in a tempest of dread The frantic despair that throbs in his head. With the cross at the height Of its summit brandished, the lofty steeple Spreads the crimson mane Of the fire o'er the plain Toward the dream-like horizons that bound the night; The city nocturnal is filled with light; The face of the swift-gathered crowds doth people With fears and with clamours both street and lane; On walls turned suddenly dazzling bright The dusky panes drink the crimson flood Like draughts of blood. Yet, knell upon knell, the old ringer doth cast His frenzy and fear o'er the country vast. The steeple, it seems to be growing higher Against the horizon that shifts and quivers, And to be flying in gleams of fire Far o'er the lakes and the swampy rivers. Its slates, like wings Of sparks and spangles, afar it flings. They fly toward the forests across the night: And in their passage the fires exhume The hovels and huts from their folds of gloom, Setting them suddenly all alight. In the crashing fall of the steeple's crown The cross to the brazier's depth drops down, Where, twisted and torn in the fiery fray, Its Christian arms are crushed like prey. With might and main The bell-ringer sounds his knell abroad. As though the flames would burn his God. The fire Funnel-like hollows its way yet higher, 'Twixt walls of stone, up the steeple's height; Gaining the archway and lofty stage Where, swinging in light, the bell bounds with rage. The daws and the owls, with wild, long cry Pass screeching by; On the fast-closed casements their heads they smite, Burn in the smoke-drifts their pinions light, Then, broken with terror and bruised with flight. Suddenly, 'mid the surging crowd. Fall dead outright. The old man sees toward his brandished bells The climbing fire With hands of boiling gold stretch nigher. The steeple Looks like a thicket of crimson bushes, With here a branch of flame that rushes Darting the belfry boards between; Convulsed and savage flames, they cling, With curves that plant-like curl and lean. Round every joist, round every pulley, And monumental beams, whence ring The bells, that voice forth frenzied folly. His fear and anguish spent, the ringer Sounds his own knell On his ruined bell. A final crash, All dust and plaster in one grey flash, Cleaves the whole steeple's height in pieces; And like some great cry slain, it ceases All on a sudden, the knell's dull rage. The ancient tower Seems sudden to lean and darkly lower; While with heavy thuds, as from stage to stage They headlong bound. The bells are heard Plunging and crashing towards the ground. But yet the old ringer has never stirred. And, scooping the moist earth out, the bell Was thus his coffin, and grave as well. THE SNOW Uninterruptedly falls the snow, Like meagre, long wool-strands, scant and slow, O'er the meagre, long plain disconsolate. Cold with lovelessness, warm with hate. Infinite, infinite falls the snow. Like a moment's time. Monotonously, in a moment's time; On the houses it falls and drops, the snow. Monotonous, whitening them o'er with rime; It falls on the sheds and their palings below. And myriad-wise, it falls and lies In ridgèd waves In the churchyard hollows between the graves. The apron of all inclement weather Is roughly unfastened, there on high; The apron of woes and misery Is shaken by wind-gusts violently Down on the hamlets that crouch together Beneath the dull horizon-sky. The frost creeps down to the very bones, And want creeps in through the walls and stones; Yea, snow and want round the souls creep close, --The heavy snow diaphanous-- Round the stone-cold hearths and the flameless souls That wither away in their huts and holes. The hamlets bare White, white as Death lie yonder, where The crookèd roadways cross and halt; Like branching traceries of salt The trees, all crystallized with frost, Stretch forth their boughs, entwined and crost. Along the ways, as on they go In far procession o'er the snow. Then here and there, some ancient mill, Where light, pale mosses aggregate, Appears on a sudden, standing straight Like a snare upon its lonely hill. The roofs and sheds, down there below. Since November dawned, have been wrestling still, In contrary blasts, with the hurricane; While, thick and full, yet falls amain The infinite snow, with its weary weight, O'er the meagre, long plain disconsolate. Thus journeys the snow afar so fleet. Into every cranny, on every trail; Always the snow and its winding-sheet, The mortuary snow so pale. The snow, unfruitful and so pale. In wild and vagabond tatters hurled Through the limitless winter of the world. THE GRAVE-DIGGER In the garden yonder of yews and death, There sojourneth A man who toils, and has toiled for aye. Digging the dried-up ground all day. Some willows, surviving their own dead selves. Weep there around him as he delves. And a few poor flowers, disconsolate Because the tempest and wind and wet Vex them with ceaseless scourge and fret. The ground is nothing but pits and cones, Deep graves in every corner yawn; The frost in the winter cracks the stones, And when the summer in June is born One hears, 'mid the silence that pants for breath, The germinating and life of Death Below, among the lifeless bones. Since ages longer than he can know, The grave-digger brings his human woe, That never wears out, and lays its head Slowly down in that earthy bed. By all the surrounding roads, each day They come towards him, the coffins white, They come in processions infinite; They come from the distances far away. From corners obscure and out-of-the-way. From the heart of the towns--and the wide-spreading plain. The limitless plain, swallows up their track; They come with their escort of people in black. At every hour, till the day doth wane; And at early dawn the long trains forlorn Begin again. The grave-digger hears far off the knell, Beneath weary skies, of the passing bell, Since ages longer than he can tell. Some grief of his each coffin carrieth-- His wild desires toward evenings dark with death Are here: his mournings for he knows not what: Here are his tears, for ever on this spot Motionless in their shrouds: his memories. With gaze worn-out from travelling through the years So far, to bid him call to mind the fears Of which their souls are dying--and with these Lies side by side The shattered body of his broken pride. His heroism, to which nought replied, Is here all unavailing; His courage, 'neath its heavy armour failing. And his poor valour, gashed upon the brow. Silent, and crumbling in corruption now. The grave-digger watches them come into sight, The long, slow roads. Marching towards him, with all their loads Of coffins white. Here are his keenest thoughts, that one by one His lukewarm soul hath tainted and undone; And his white loves of simple days of yore, in lewd and tempting mirrors sullied o'er; The proud, mute vows that to himself he made Are here--for he hath scored and cancelled them, As one may cut and notch a diadem; And here, inert and prone, his will is laid, Whose gestures flashed like lightning keen before. But that he now can raise in strength no more. The grave-digger digs to the sound of the knell 'Mid the yews and the deaths in yonder dell. Since ages longer than he can tell. Here is his dream--born in the radiant glow. Of joy and young oblivion, long ago-- That in black fields of science he let go, That he hath clothed with flame and embers bright, --Red wings plucked off from Folly in her flight-- That he hath launched toward inaccessible Spaces afar, toward the distance there, The golden conquest of the Impossible, And that the limitless, refractory sky, Sends back to him again, or it has ere So much as touched the immobile mystery. The grave-digger turneth it round and round-- With arms by toil so weary made, With arms so thin, and strokes of spade-- Since what long times?--the dried-up ground. Here, for his anguish and remorse, there throng Pardons denied to creatures in the wrong; And here, the tears, the prayers, the silent cries, He would not list to in his brothers' eyes. The insults to the gentle, and the jeer What time the humble bent their knees, are here; Gloomy denials, and a bitter store Of arid sarcasms, oft poured out before Devotedness that in the shadow stands With outstretched hands. The grave-digger, weary, yet eager as well. Hiding his pain to the sound of the knell, With strokes of the spade turns round and round The weary sods of the dried-up ground. Then--fear-struck dallyings with suicide; Delays, that conquer hours that would decide: Again--the terrors of dark crime and sin Furtively felt with frenzied fingers thin: The fierce craze and the fervent rage to be The man who lives of the extremity Of his own fear: And then, too, doubt immense and wild affright. And madness, with its eyes of marble white, These all are here. His head a prey to the dull knell's sound, In terror the grave-digger turns the ground With strokes of the spade, and doth ceaseless cast The dried-up earth upon his past. The slain days, and the present, he doth see, Quelling each quivering thrill of life to be. And drop by drop, through fists whose fingers start. Pressing the future blood of his red heart; Chewing with teeth that grind and crush, each part Of that his future's body, limb by limb, Till there is but a carcase left to him; And shewing him, in coffins prisoned, Or ever they be born, his longings dead. The grave-digger yonder doth hear the knell, More heavy yet, of the passing bell. That up through the mourning horizons doth swell What if the bells, with their haunting swing, Would stop on a day that heart-breaking ring! And the endless procession of corse after corse. Choke the highways no more of his long remorse But the biers, with the prayers and the tears, Immensely yet follow the biers; They halt by crucifix now, and by shrine, Then take up once more their mournful line; On the backs of men, upon trestles borne. They follow their uniform march forlorn; Skirting each field and each garden-wall. Passing beneath the sign-posts tall, Skirting along by the vast Unknown, Where terror points horns from the corner-stone. The old man, broken and propless quite. Watches them still from the infinite Coming towards him--and hath beside Nothing to do, but in earth to hide His multiple death, thus bit by bit, And, with fingers irresolute, plant on it Crosses so hastily, day by day, Since what long times--he cannot say. THE WIND Crossing the infinite length of the moorland, Here comes the wind, The wind with his trumpet that Heralds November; Endless and infinite, crossing the downs, Here comes the wind That teareth himself and doth fiercely dismember; Which heavy breaths turbulent smiting the towns, The savage wind comes, the fierce wind of November! Each bucket of iron at the wells of the farmyards, Each bucket and pulley, it creaks and it wails; By cisterns of farmyards, the pulleys and pails They creak and they cry, The whole of sad death in their melancholy. The wind, it sends scudding dead leaves from the birches Along o'er the water, the wind of November, The savage, fierce wind; The boughs of the trees for the birds' nests it searches, To bite them and grind. The wind, as though rasping down iron, grates past, And, furious and fast, from afar combs the cold And white avalanches of winter the old. The savage wind combs them so furious and fast. The wind of November. From each miserable shed The patched garret-windows wave wild overhead Their foolish, poor tatters of paper and glass. As the savage, fierce wind of November doth pass! And there on its hill Of dingy and dun-coloured turf, the black mill, Swift up from below, through the empty air slashing, Swift down from above, like a lightning-stroke flashing, The black mill so sinister moweth the wind. The savage, fierce wind of November! The old, ragged thatches that squat round their steeple, Are raised on their roof-poles, and fall with a clap, In the wind the old thatches and pent-houses flap, In the wind of November, so savage and hard. The crosses--and they are the arms of dead people-- The crosses that stand in the narrow churchyard Fall prone on the sod Like some great flight of black, in the acre of God. The wind of November! Have you met him, the savage wind, do you remember? Did he pass you so fleet, --Where, yon at the cross, the three hundred roads meet-- With distressfulness panting, and wailing with cold? Yea, he who breeds fears and puts all things to flight, Did you see him, that night When the moon he o'erthrew--when the villages, old In their rot and decay, past endurance and spent, Cried, wailing like beasts, 'neath the hurricane bent? Here comes the wind howling, that heralds dark weather, The wind blowing infinite over the heather. The wind with his trumpet that heralds November! THE FISHERMEN The spot is flaked with mist, that fills, Thickening into rolls more dank, The thresholds and the window-sills, And smokes on every bank. The river stagnates, pestilent With carrion by the current sent This way and that--and yonder lies The moon, just like a woman dead, That they have smothered overhead, Deep in the skies. In a few boats alone there gleam Lamps that light up and magnify The backs, bent over stubbornly, Of the old fishers of the stream, Who since last evening, steadily, --For God knows what night-fishery-- Have let their black nets downward slow Into the silent water go. The noisome water there below. Down in the river's deeps, ill-fate And black mischances breed and hatch. Unseen of them, and lie in wait As for their prey. And these they catch With weary toil--believing still That simple, honest work is best-- At night, beneath the shifting mist Unkind and chill. So hard and harsh, yon clock-towers tell. With muffled hammers, like a knell, The midnight hour. From tower to tower So hard and harsh the midnights chime. The midnights harsh of autumn time, The weary midnights' bell. The crew Of fishers black have on their back Nought save a nameless rag or two; And their old hats distil withal, And drop by drop let crumbling fall Into their necks, the mist-flakes all. The hamlets and their wretched huts Are numb and drowsy, and all round The willows too, and walnut trees, 'Gainst which the Easterly fierce breeze Has waged its feud. No bayings from the forest sound, No cry the empty midnight cuts-- The midnight space that grows imbrued With damp breaths from the ashy ground. The fishers hail each other not-- Nor help--in their fraternal lot; Doing but that which must be done. Each fishes for himself alone. And this one gathers in his net, Drawing it tighter yet, His freight of petty misery; And that one drags up recklessly Diseases from their slimy bed; While others still their meshes spread Out to the sorrows that drift by Threateningly nigh; And the last hauls aboard with force The wreckage dark of his remorse. The river, round its corners bending, And with the dyke-heads intertwined. Goes hence--since what times out of mind?-- Toward the far horizon wending Of weariness unending. Upon the banks, the skins of wet Black ooze-heaps nightly poison sweat. And the mists are their fleeces light That curl up to the houses' height. In their dark boats, where nothing stirs, Not even the red-flamed torch that blurs With halos huge, as if of blood. The thick felt of the mist's white hood, Death with his silence seals the sere Old fishermen of madness here. The isolated, they abide Deep in the mist--still side by side. But seeing one another never; Weary are both their arms--and yet Their work their ruin doth beget. Each for himself works desperately, He knows not why--no dreams has he; Long have they worked, for long, long years, While every instant brings its fears; Nor have they ever Quitted the borders of their river, Where 'mid the moonlit mists they strain To fish misfortune up amain. If but in this their night they hailed each other And brothers' voices might console a brother! But numb and sullen, on they go, With heavy brows and backs bent low, While their small lights beside them gleam, Flickering feebly on the stream. Like blocks of shadow they are there. Nor ever do their eyes divine That far away beyond the mists Acrid and spongy--there exists A firmament where 'mid the night. Attractive as a loadstone, bright Prodigious planets shine. The fishers black of that black plague, They are the lost immeasurably, Among the knells, the distance vague, The yonder of those endless plains That stretch more far than eye can see: And the damp autumn midnight rains Into their souls' monotony. THE ROPE-MAKER In his village grey At foot of the dykes, that encompass him With weary weaving of curves and lines Toward the sea outstretching dim, The rope-maker, visionary white. Stepping backwards along the way, Prudently 'twixt his hands combines The distant threads, in their twisting play. That come to him from the infinite. When day is gone. Through ardent, weary evenings, yon The whirr of a wheel can yet be heard; Something by unseen hands is stirred. And parallel o'er the rakes, that trace An even space From point to point along all the way, The flaxen hemp still plaits its chain Ceaseless, for days and weeks amain. With his poor, tired fingers, nimble still. Fearing to break for want of skill The fragments of gold that the gliding light Threads through his toil so scantily-- Passing the walls and the houses by The rope-maker, visionary white, From depths of the evening's whirlpool dim, Draws the horizons in to him. Horizons that stretch back afar. Where strife, regrets, hates, furies are: Tears of the silence, and the tears That find a voice: serenest years, Or years convulsed with pang and throe: Horizons of the long ago, These gestures of the Past they shew. Of old--as one in sleep, life, errant, strayed Its wondrous morns and fabled evenings through; When God's right hand toward far Canaan's blue Traced golden paths, deep in the twilight shade. Of old, 'twas life exasperate, huge and tense, Swung savage at some stallion's mane--life, fleet. With mighty lightnings flashing 'neath her feet, Upreared immensely over space immense. Of old, 'twas life evoking ardent will; And hell's red cross and Heaven's cross of white Each marched, with gleam of steely armours' light. Through streams of blood, to heavens of victory still. Of old--life, livid, foaming, came and went 'Mid strokes of tocsin and assassin's knife; Proscribers, murderers, each with each at strife, While, mad and splendid. Death above them bent. 'Twixt fields of flax and of osiers red. On the road where nothing doth move or tread, By houses and walls to left and right The rope-maker, visionary white, From depths of evening's treasury dim Draws the horizons in to him. Horizons that stretch yonder far. Where work, strifes, ardours, science are; Horizons that change--they pass and glide, And on their way They shew in mirrors of eventide The mourning image of dark To-day. Here--writhing fires that never rest nor end. Where, in one giant effort all employed, Sages cast down the Gods, to change the void Whither the flights of human science tend. Here--'tis a room where thought, assertive, saith That there are weights exact to gauge her by, That inane ether, only, rounds the sky. And that in phials of glass men breed up death. Here--'tis a workship, where, all fiery bright, Matter intense vibrates with fierce turmoil In vaults where wonders new, 'mid stress and toil, Are forged, that can absorb space, time and night. --A palace--of an architecture grown Effete, and weary 'neath its hundred years. Whence voices vast invoke, instinct with fears, The thunder in its flights toward the Unknown. On the silent, even road--his eyes Still fixed towards the waning light That skirts the houses and walls as it dies-- The rope-maker, visionary white, From depths of the evening's halo dim Draws the horizons in to him. Horizons that are there afar Where light, hope, wakenings, strivings are; Horizons that he sees defined As hope for some future, far and kind. Beyond those distant shores and faint That evening on the clouds doth paint. Yon--'mid that distance calm and musical Twin stairs of gold suspend their steps of blue, The sage doth climb them, and the seer too, Starting from sides opposed toward one goal. Yon--contradiction's lightning-shocks lose power. Doubt's sullen hand unclenches to the light, The eye sees in their essence laws unite Rays scattered once 'mid doctrines of an hour. Yon--keenest spirits pierce beyond the land Of seeming and of death. The heart hath ease, And one would say that Mildness held the keys Of the colossal silence in her hand. Up yon--the God each soul is, once again Creates, expands, gives, finds himself in all; And rises higher, the lowlier he doth fall Before meek tenderness and sacred pain. And there is ardent, living peace--its urns Of even bliss ranged 'mid these twilights, where --Embers of hope upon the ashen air-- Each great nocturnal planet steadfast burns. In his village at foot of the dykes, that bend, Sinuous, weary, about him and wend Toward that distance of eddying light, The rope-maker, visionary white. Along by each house and each garden wall. Absorbs in himself the horizons all. From "LES HEURES CLAIRES" I Oh, splendour of our joy and our delight, Woven of gold amid the silken air! See the dear house among its gables light, And the green garden, and the orchard there! Here is the bench with apple-trees o'er head Whence the light spring is shed. With touch of petals falling slow and soft; Here branches luminous take flight aloft, Hovering, like some bounteous presage, high Against this landscape's clear and tender sky. Here lie, like kisses from the lips dropt down Of yon frail azur upon earth below, Two simple, pure, blue pools, and like a crown About their edge, chance flowers artless grow. O splendour of our joy and of our ourselves! Whose life doth feed, within this garden bright, Upon the emblems of our own delight. What are those forms that yonder slowly pass? Our two glad souls are they, That pastime take, and stray Along the terraces and woodland grass? Are these thy breasts, are these thine eyes, these two Golden-bright flowers of harmonious hue? These grasses, hanging like some plumage rare. Bathed in the stream they ruffle by their touch. Are they the strands of thy smooth, glossy hair? No shelter e'er could match yon orchard white. Or yonder house amid its gables light, And garden, that so blest a sky controls, Weaving the climate dear to both our souls. VIII As in the guileless, golden age, my heart I gave thee, even like an ample flower That opens in the dew's bright morning hour; My lips have rested where the frail leaves part. I plucked the flower--it came From meadows whereon grow the flowers of flame: Speak to it not--'tis best that we control Words, since they needs are trivial 'twixt us two; All words are hazardous, for it is through The eyes that soul doth hearken unto soul. That flower that is my heart, and where secure My heart's avowal hides. Simply confides Unto thy lips that she is clear and pure. Loyal and good--and that one's trust toward A virgin love is like a child's in God. Let wit and wisdom flower upon the height, Along capricious paths of vanity; And give we welcome to sincerity, That holds between her fingers crystal-bright Our two clear hearts: for what so beautiful As a confession made from soul to soul. When eve returns And the white flame of countless diamonds burns. Like myriads of silent eyes intent, Th' unfathomed silence of the firmament. XVII. That we may love each other through our eyes Let us our glances lave, and make them clear, Of all the thousand glances that they here Have met, in this base world of servile lies. The dawn is dressed in blossom and in dew, And chequered too With very tender light--it looks as though Frail plumes of sun and silver, through the mist, Glided across the garden to and fro, And with a soft caress the mosses kissed. Our wondrous ponds of blue Tremble and wake with golden shimmerings; Swift emerald flights beneath the trees dart through. And now the light from hedge and path anew Sweeps the damp dust, where yet the twilight clings. XXI. In hours like these, when through our dream of bliss So far from all things not ourselves we move, What lustral blood, what baptism is this That bathes our hearts, straining toward perfect love? Our hands are clasped, and yet there is no prayer, Our arms outstretched, and yet no cry is there; Adoring something, what, we cannot say. More pure than we are and more far away, With spirit fervent and most guileless grown, How we are mingled and dissolved in one; Ah, how we live each other, in the unknown! Oh, how absorbed and wholly lost before The presence of those hours supreme one lies! And how the soul would fain find other skies To seek therein new gods it might adore; Oh, marvellous and agonizing joy, Audacious hope whereon the spirit hangs, Of being one day Once more the prey, Beyond even death, of these deep, silent pangs. From "LES APPARUS DANS MES CHEMINS" ST. GEORGE Opening the mists on a sudden through, An Avenue! Then, all one ferment of varied gold, With foam of plumes where the chamfrom bends Round his horse's head, that no bit doth hold, St. George descends! The diamond-rayed caparison, Makes of his flight one declining path From Heaven's pity down upon Our waiting earth. Hero and Lord Of the joyous, helpful virtues all. Sonorous, pure and crystalline! Let his radiance fall On my heart nocturnal and make it shine In the wheeling aureole of his sword! Let the wind's soft silvern whispers sound And ring his coat of mail around, His battle-spurs amid the fight! --He--the St. George--who shines so bright And comes, 'mid the wailings of my desire. To seize and lift my poor hands higher Toward his dauntless valour's fire! Like a cry great with faith, to God His lance St. George upraised doth hold; Crossing athwart my glance he trod. As 'twere one tumult of haggard gold. The chrism's glow on his forehead shone, The great St. George of duty high! Beautiful by his heart, and by Himself alone! Ring, all my voices of hope, ring on! Ring forth in me Beneath fresh boughs of greenery, Down radiant pathways, full of sun; Ye glints of silvery mica, be Bright joy amid my stones--and ye White pebbles that the waters strew. Open your eyes in my brooklets, through The watery lids that cover you; Landscape of gushing springs and sun, With gold that quivers on misty blue, Landscape that dwells in me, hold thou The mirror now To the fiery flights, that flaming roll, Of the great St. George toward my soul! 'Gainst the black Dragon's teeth and claws, Against the armour of leprous sores, The miracle and sword is he; On his breast-plate burneth Charity, And his gentleness sends hurtling back. In dire defeat, the Instinct black. Fires flecked with gold, that flashing turn, Whirlwinds of stars, those glories meet, About his galloping horse's feet. Deep into my remembrance burn Their lightnings fleet! He comes, a fair ambassador, From white lands built with marble o'er. Where grows, in glades beside the sea, Upon the tree Of goodness, fragrant gentleness. That haven, too, he knows no less Where wondrous ships rock, calm and still. That freights of sleeping angels fill; And those vast evenings, when below Upon the water, 'mid the skies' Reflected eyes. Islands flash sudden forth and glow. That kingdom fair Whereof the Virgin ariseth Queen, Its lowly, ardent joy is he; And his flaming sword in the ambient air Vibrates like an ostensory-- The suddenly flashing St. George! behold, He strikes through my soul like a fire of gold! He knows from what far wanderings I come: what mists obscure my brain; What dagger marks have deeply scarred My thought, and with black crosses marred: With what spent force, what anger vain. What petty scorn of better things, --Yea, and with what a mask I came, Folly upon the lees of shame! A coward was I; the world I fled To hide my head Within a huge and futile Me; I builded, beneath domes of Night, The blocks of marble, gold be-starred, Of a hostile science, endlessly Towards a height By oracles of blackness barred. For Death alone is Queen of night. And human effort is brightest born Only at dawn. With opening flowers would prayer fain bloom, And their sweet lips hold the same perfume. The sunbeams shimmering white that fall On pearly water, are for all Like a caress Upon our life: the dawn unfolds A counsel fair of trustfulness; And whoso hearkens thereto is saved From his slough, where never a sin was laved. St. George in radiant armour came Speeding along in leaps of flame 'Mid the sweet morning, through my soul. Young, beautiful by faith was he; He leaned the lower down toward me Even as I the lowlier knelt; Like some pure, golden cordial In secret felt. He filled me with his soaring strength, And with sweet fear most tenderly. Before that vision's dignity, Into his pale, proud hand at length I cast the blood my pain had spent. Then, laying upon me as he went A charge of valour, and the sign Of the cross on my brow from his lance divine, He sped upon his shining road Straight, with my heart, towards his God. THE GARDENS The landscape now reveals a change; A stair--that twinèd elm-boughs hold Enclosed 'mid hedges mystic, strange-- Inaugurates a green and gold Vision of gardens, range on range. Each step's a hope, that doth ascend Stairwise to expectation's height; A weary way it is to wend While noonday suns are burning bright. But rest waits at the evening's end. Streams, that wash white from sin, flow deep, And round about the fresh lawns twine; While there, beneath the green banks steep, Beside his cross, the Lamb Divine Lies tranquilly in peaceful sleep. The daisied grass is glad, and gay With crystal butterflies the hedge. Where globes of fruit shine blue; here stray Peacocks beside the box-trees' edge: A shining lion bars the way. Flowers, upright as the ecstasies And ardours of white spirits pure, With branches springing fountain-wise, Burst upward, and by impulse sure To their own soaring splendour rise. Gently and very slowly swayed. The wind a wordless rhapsody Sings--and the shimm'ring air doth braid An aureole of filigree Round every disk with emerald laid. Even the shade is but a flight Toward flickering radiances, that slip From space to space; and now the light Sleeps, with calmed rays, upon the lip Of lilac-blossoms golden-white. SHE OF THE GARDEN In such a spot, with radiant flowers for halo, I saw the Guardian Angel sit her down; Vine-branches fashioned a green shrine above her And sun-flowers rose behind her like a crown. Her fingers, their white slenderness encircled With humble, fragile rings of coral round. Held, ranged in couples, sprays of faithful roses. Sealed with a clasp, with threads of woollen bound. A shimmering air the golden calm was weaving, All filigree'd with dawn, that like a braid Surmounted her pure brow, which still was hidden Half in the shade. Woven of linen were her veil and sandals. But, twined 'mid boughs of foliage, on their hem The theologic Virtues Three were painted; Hearts set about with gold encompassed them. Her silken hair, slow rippling, from her shoulder Down to the mosses of the sward did reach; The childhood of her eyes disclosed a silence More sweet than speech. My arms outstretched, and all my soul upstraining. Then did I rise, With haggard yearning, toward the soul suspended There in her eyes. Those eyes, they shone so vivid with remembrance, That they confessed days lived alike with me: Oh, in the grave inviolate can it change, then, The Long Ago, and live in the To Be? Sure, she was one who, being dead, yet brought me. Miraculous, a strength that comforteth, And the Viaticum of her survival Guiding me from the further side of Death. From "LA MULTIPLE SPLENDEUR" THE GLORY OF THE HEAVENS Shining in dim transparence, the whole of infinity lies Behind the veil that the finger of radiant winter weaves And down on us falls the foliage of stars in glittering sheaves; From out the depths of the forest, the forest obscure of the skies, The wingèd sea with her shadowy floods as of dappled silk Speeds, 'neath the golden fires, her pale immensity o'er; And diamond-rayed, the moonlight, shining along the shore, Bathes the brow of the headlands in radiance as soft as milk. Yonder there flow, untwining and twining their loops anew! The mighty, silvery rivers, through the translucent night; And a glint as of wondrous acids sparkles with magic light the cup that the lake outstretches towards the mountains blue. Everywhere light seems breaking forth into flower and star, Whether on shore in stillness, or wavering on the deep. The islands are nests where silence inviolate doth deep; An ardent nimbus hovers o'er yon horizons far. See, from Nadir to Zenith one aureole doth reach! Of yore, the souls exalted by faith's high mysteries Saw, in the domination of those star-clouded skies, Jehovah's hand resplendent and heard His silent speech. But now the eyes that scan them no longer may there aspire To we some god self-banished--not so, but the intricate Tangle of marvellous problems, the messengers that wait On Measureless Force, and veil her, there on her couch of fire. O cauldrons of life, where matter, adown the eternal day, Pours herself fruitful, seething through paths of scattering flame! O flux of worlds and reflux to other worlds the same! Unending oscillation betwixt newer and for aye! Tumults consumed in whirlpools of speed and sound and light-- Violence we nought may reck of!--and yet there falls from thence The vast, unbroken silence, mysterious and intense That makes the peace, the calmness and beauty of the night! O spheres of flame and golden, always more far and high; Abyss to abyss still floating, onward from shade to shade! So far, so high, all reck'ning the wisdom of man has made, Before those giddy numbers must shrink in his hands and die! Shining in dim transparence, the whole of infinity lies Behind the veils that the finger of radiant winter weaves; And down on us falls the foliage of star in glittering sheaves, From out the depths of the forest, the forest obscure of the skies. LIFE To see beauty in all, is to lift our own Soul Up to loftier heights than do chose who aspire
{'title': 'Poems of Emile Verhaeren by Emile Verhaeren', 'source': 'Project Gutenberg', 'lang': 'en'}