Contemporary Belgian Poetry Part 14

THE GARDEN INCLOSED.

_Fulcite me floribus._

Dear is thy bandage, Love, To my heavy lids that it closes; It weighs like the sweet burden of Suns.h.i.+ne on frail, white roses.

I walk as to voices that call, I seem over waters to hover, And every wave, like a lover, Folds round my feet as they fall.

Who has unloosened my tresses, As through the dark places I came?

Girdled with unseen caresses, I plunge into billows of flame.

My lips, where my soul is crooning, Open in rapt desire, Like a burning blossom swooning Over a river on fire.

_Dormis et cor meum vigilat._

My hands lie for my b.r.e.a.s.t.s to soothe, Of playing and of distaffs tired; My white hands, my hands desired, Seem asleep on waters smooth.

Far from futile, waste repining, On this my beauty's throne, Frail, calm, gentle Queens reclining, My royal hands dream of their own.

And while mine eyes are closed, and still is The golden hair my breast that robes, I am the virgin holding lilies, I am the infant holding globes.

_Si floruit vinea._

In mulberry time they sang my lips that yield To keen caresses, And, like the rain upon the summer field, My long, warm tresses.

In time of vintaging they sang mine eyes, Mine eyes half-closed, Veiled by tired lids and lashes unreposed, Like autumn skies.

I have all gleams and savours, I am supple As a bindweed in hedgerow bowers, My b.r.e.a.s.t.s are curved as flames are, or a couple Of sister flowers.

_Ego dilecto meo et dilectus meus mihi._

When thou dost plunge into mine eyes thine eyes, I am all within mine eyes.

When thy mouth unties my mouth, My love is nothing save my mouth.

When thy fingers lightly touch my hair, I am not if it be not there.

When they touch my b.r.e.a.s.t.s at any time, Like a sudden fire to them I climb.

Is it this which is to thee most dear?

Here my soul is, all my life is here.

_In a perfume of white roses_ _She sits, dream fast;_ _And the shadow is beautiful as though an angel there_ _were gla.s.sed._

_The gloam descends, the grove reposes;_ _The leaves and branches through_ _On the gold Paradise is opening one of blue._

_A last faint wave breaks on the darkening sh.o.r.e._ _A voice that sang just now is murmuring._ _A murmuring breath is breathing ... now no more._ _In the silence petals fall...._

The angel of the morning star came down Into her garden, and he spake to her:

"Come with me, I will show thee many a lake, Valleys delightful, secret forest bowers, Where still, in other dreams than ours, The subtle spirits wake Of the earth."

She stretched her arms, with laughter Looking between her lashes on The angel flaming in the sun, And, when he moved, in silence followed after.

And while they wandered to the groves of shade The Angel round her laid His arm, and set Among her bright hair longer than his wings The flowers he gathered dewy wet Upon the branches over her.

THE TEMPTATION.

_Shapes that coiled in the woods and waters,_ _Glittering sons and radiant daughters._ --D.G. ROSSETTI.

A silence softened the declining day, A moan, and then a love-sigh died away.

Apples were falling one by one between The gra.s.ses warm and shadows emerald green.

The sun sank down from branch to branch; a bird Singing among the stirless leaves was heard.

A scent of soft and swooning blossoms strayed, Like a slow sea-wave, through the deepening shade.

And, to hear better her who comes, with bent Eyes, as in dream, and heart to meet her sent, By paths where never sound the silence jars,

Voluptuous evening, in the heated air, With hands of subtle and accomplice care, Spread the insidious net of oblique stars.

ART THOU WAKING?

Art thou waking, my perfume sunny, My perfume of gilded bees, Art thou floating along the breeze, My perfume of sweet honey?

In the hush of the gloam, when my feet Roam through the rich garden-closes, Dost thou tell I am coming, thou smell Of my lilacs, and my warm roses?

Am I not like in this gloam a Cl.u.s.ter of fruit concealed By the leaves, and by nothing revealed, Save in the night its aroma?

Does he know, now the hour is dim, That I am half opening my hair, Does he know that it scents the air, Does its odour reach to him?

Does he feel I am straining my arms?