Poems of Emile Verhaeren Part 5

Here--writhing fires that never rest nor end.

Where, in one giant effort all employed, Sages cast down the G.o.ds, to change the void Whither the flights of human science tend.

Here--'tis a room where thought, a.s.sertive, saith That there are weights exact to gauge her by, That inane ether, only, rounds the sky.

And that in phials of gla.s.s men breed up death.

Here--'tis a works.h.i.+p, where, all fiery bright, Matter intense vibrates with fierce turmoil In vaults where wonders new, 'mid stress and toil, Are forged, that can absorb s.p.a.ce, 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 sh.o.r.es 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 G.o.d 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 d.y.k.es, 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 pa.s.s?

Our two glad souls are they, That pastime take, and stray Along the terraces and woodland gra.s.s?

Are these thy b.r.e.a.s.t.s, are these thine eyes, these two Golden-bright flowers of harmonious hue?

These gra.s.ses, 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 G.o.d.

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.