Contemporary Belgian Poetry Part 18

All the _chatelaines_ have died of hunger, this summer, in the turrets of my soul!

Here is the daybreak entering the festival!

I catch a glimpse of sheep that stray on quays, And there is a sail at the windows of the hospital.

There is a long road from my heart unto my soul!

And all the sentinels are dead at their post!

One day there was a poor little banquet in the suburbs of my soul!

Hemlock was being mown one Sunday morning; And all the virgins of the convent were watching vessels pa.s.sing on the ca.n.a.l, one day of fasting and of suns.h.i.+ne, While the swans were pining under a poisonous bridge; They were pruning trees round the prison, They were bringing medicines one afternoon in June, And meals of patients were being spread at all the horizons!

My soul!

And the sadness of it all, my soul! and the sadness of it all!

La.s.sITUDE.

These kisses know no longer where to rest, For blind and cold the eyes were they caressed; Henceforth asleep in splendid reverie they Watch dreamily, as in the gra.s.s dogs may, The grey horizon-herded sheep-folk graze Upon the turf the moon's dishevelled rays, Kissed by the sun, dark as their life is dark; Indifferent, without an envious spark For pleasure's roses under them unclosing; And this long, green, ununderstood reposing.

TIRED WILD BEASTS.

O laughter and pa.s.sion-sighs, And sobs that the sick breast heaves!

Sick and with half-closed eyes Among dishevelled leaves,

My hate's hyenas slouching, My sin's yellow dogs, and, large, At the weary, pale desert's marge, The lions of love are crouching!

In a listless dream they lie, And, languid and oppressed, Under their colourless sky They watch, and shall without rest,

Temptation's sheep together, Or one by one, depart, And in the moon at tether The pa.s.sions of my heart.

l.u.s.tRELESS HOURS.

Here are old desires marching past, Dream after dream reeling by, Dream after dream failing fast; Hope's days are doomed to die!

To whom must we flee to-day!

No star to show us whereto; But ice on our hearts grown gray, And in the moon linen blue.

Sob after sob is trapped!

Fireless the sick in the city, The gra.s.s of the lambs is lapped In snow, Sweet Saviour, pity!

But I, till the sleep is done, Await, I shall waken soon, I wait for a little sun On my hands iced by the moon.

THE HOSPITAL.

Hospital! Hospital on the ca.n.a.l!

Hospital in July!

There is a fire in the room!

While ocean liners blow their whistle on the ca.n.a.l!

(O! do not come near the windows!) Emigrants are crossing a palace!

I see a yacht in the tempest!

I see flocks on all the s.h.i.+ps!

(It is better to keep all the windows closed, One is almost sheltered from the outside.) It is like a hot-house on snow, You are going with a woman's churching on a stormy day, You have a glimpse of plants shed o'er a linen sheet, There is a conflagration in the sun, And I cross a forest full of wounded men.

O! now at last the moonlight!

A jet of water rises in the middle of the room!

A troop of little girls half open the door!

I catch a glimpse of lambs on an island in the meadows!

And of beautiful plants on a glacier!

And lilies in a marble vestibule!

There is a festival in a virgin forest!

And an oriental vegetation in a cave of ice!

Listen! the locks are opened!

And the ocean liners stir the water of the ca.n.a.l!

O! but the sister of charity poking the fire!

All the beautiful green rushes of the banks are on fire!

A vessel full of wounded men rocks in the moonlight!

All the King's daughters are in a bark in the storm!

And the Princesses are going to die in a field of hemlock!

O! do not leave the lattices ajar!

Listen: the ocean liners still are blowing their whistle on the horizon!

Some one is being poisoned in a garden!

People are banqueting in the house of their enemies!

There are stags in a town that is besieged!

And a menagerie amid the lilies!

There is a tropical vegetation in a coal-pit!

A flock of sheep is crossing an iron bridge!

And the lambs of the meadow are coming sadly into the room!

Now the sister of charity lights the lamps, She brings the patients their meal, She has closed the windows on the ca.n.a.l, And all the doors to the moon.