Contemporary Belgian Poetry Part 15

And that the lilies of my valleys Are dewy with pa.s.sion-balm That for his touching tarries?

ALL OF WHITE AND OF GOLD.

All of white and of gold Are the pinions of my angels; But Love Hath pinions changing.

His sweet wings are turn by turn The colour of purple and roses, And the crimson sea where uncloses The kiss of the sun.

The beautiful wings of my angels Are very slow, And open closed.

But the agile wings of Love Are impatient, And like hearts never rest.

THE RAIN.

The rain, my sister dear, The summer rain warm and clear, Gently flees, gently flies, Through the moist atmosphere.

Her collar of white pearls has come undone in the skies.

Blackbirds sing with all your might, Dance magpies!

Among the branches downward pressed, Dance flowers, dance every nest, All that comes from the skies is blest.

To my mouth she approaches Her wet lips of strawberries wild; She has touched me with a mouth that smiled, Everywhere at once, With her millions of little fingers.

On a lawn Of sounding flowers, From the dawn to the evening hours, And from the evening to the dawn, She rains and rains again, She rains with might and main.

Then the sun with golden hair Dries the bare Feet of the rain.

AT SUNSET.

At sunset, Swans of jet, Or fairies sombre, Come out of the flowers, and things, and us These are our shadows.

They advance: the day retreats.

Into the dusk they go, With a gliding movement slow.

They gather, to each other call, Seek with noiseless footfall, And together all With their wings so light Make the great night.

But the dawn in the sea Awakes and takes His torch, then he Climbs gleam by gleam, Climbs in a dream.

Out of the waves arise His tresses fair, And blue eyes.

At once, as they were blown Away, the shadows flee.

Where? Who can see?

Into the earth? Into the sea?

Into a flower? Into a stone?

Into us?

Who knows?

Their wings they close, And now repose.

It is the morn.

A BARQUE OF GOLD.

In a barque of the Orient Maidens three are coming back, Maidens three from the Orient Are coming in a barque of gold.

One is black, Her hands the rudder hold, On her curving lips with their essences of roses She brings to us strange stories, In the silence.

One is brown, She holds the full sail down, And on her feet are wings, An angel's mien to us she brings In her motionless bearing.

But one is fair, At the prow she is sleeping, As from the rising sun her hair The wave is sweeping, She brings us back in her eyes so bright All the light.

LILIES THAT SPIN.

Now in this April morning, sweet With folded shadows and doves cooing, The dear child with her shy conceit What is she busy doing?

The blonde trace where her footsteps go Is lost in the grated garden's alleys; I do not know, I do not know The meaning of her cunning sallies.

With a long gown down to her heel, Pensive and slow, with a silent gesture Upon the sun at a white wheel She is spinning a blue linen vesture.

And with blue eyes of bridal bliss Smiling at her dream that glances, Weaving golden foliages Among the lilies of her fancies.

GReGOIRE LE ROY.

1862--.

THE SPINSTER PAST.

The old woman spins, and her wheel Is prattling of old, old things; As though to a doll she sings, And memories over her steal.

The hemp is yellow and long, The old woman spins the thread, Bending her white, weary head Over the wheel's lying song.

The wheel goes round with a whirl, The yellow hemp is unwound, She turns it round and round, She is playing like a girl.

The yellow hemp is unwound, She sees herself a girl, As blonde as the skeins that whirl, She is dancing round and round.

The wheel rolls round with a whirr, And the hemp is humming as well, She hears an old lover tell And whisper his love for her.