Contemporary Belgian Poetry Part 26

Spring water! Fruits of a virgin vine! And let Her fresh and virgin hands lie on the fret Of my King's brow burnt by its diadem."

O pitiful crown upon a head so lowly!

Does the unquiet night allegiance show thee?

Thou King of beautiful lands that never were.

"O stars among the trees! O waters pale!

Comes the expected dawn in opal veil?

Pity the tired and lonely sufferer:

And grant me, Lord, after the night out-drawn, The sleep and boon of Thy forgiving dawn; And let Thy chosen heart no longer bleed!"

But answer makes the Lord in stern denial: "Leave thou, for n.o.bler verse, to pain and trial Thy heart, the open book the angels read."

THE KISS OF SOULS.

You who have died to me, you think you live!

Living, your squandered gems and lilies shed!

But since the dream you were is fugitive, Love, calm and sad, whispers that you are dead.

She that you were survives in dreams: I press Her virgin hands, I hear the vows she swears.

Hath not this evening that old loveliness?

I seem to breathe the blossoms that she wears.

Hearts had been beating long before they spoke, But eyes had speech, and tender voices ringing, Docile to love like perfect lyres, awoke The forest's wondering echo with their singing.

A lovelier and a lonelier evening came; The sun behind the breathless forest set.

Who was it hushed our voices? For in shame We bent our eyes down that by chance had met.

The treasure of our hearts this one deep look Delivered up! Our secrets were in this One look exchanged that our two spirits took, And wedded in their first and only kiss.

HER SWEET VOICE.

Her sweet voice was a music in mine ear; And in the perfume of the atmosphere Which, in that eve, her shadowy presence shed, "Sister of mystery," trembling I said, "Too like an angel to be what you seem, Go not away too soon, beloved dream!"

Then, smiling as a mother will, she seized My brow, and with soft hands my fever eased.

"Still, thou poor child, this childish fear of me?

Thy forehead furrowed by sad memory, Are these a shadow's hands that on it rest?

A bright May morn is dawning in thy breast: Is it a phantom's voice that soothes thy grief?

But if my beauty be beyond belief, Breathe its terrestrial odour! Part my hair, And take my veil away and make me bare!

Thou canst not soil my wings, nor stain the snow Of these frail flowers that in my garden blow; Come, in so fair an evening, spend the treasure Of my veiled loveliness in thy heart's pleasure."

Thus sang the tender voice that needs must fade!

And in her kiss the soul was of a maid.

But night came from the rim of autumn skies, Came from the forest's shallow, evil eyes.

THE REFUGE.

This is mine hour. Night falls upon my life.

I must forego my part in men's keen strife.

With conquered step resigned I reach the door, Beloved too late, where none awaits me more.

An autumn shudder through the clear, cold sky Runs, interrupting the monotonous cry Shed by a horn astray and desolate, Making me, languidly, smile at my fate....

But all is said. Naught moves me, in the gloam, Save the uneasy hope of this dear home.

She lives; my heart, and not mine eye, foresees.

The sweetness of the moon, spread on the trees, Veils more and more this happy nook with peace And mystery that bids foreboding cease;

A counsel of forgetfulness is cast Around me, something pensive, good, and vast.

And every step I take the more it thrills My soul which yet that ancient quarrel fills.

But what shall summer storms betoken, when She breathes the autumn calm she longed for then, And only trembles feeling memories stir Of hearts that loved her well and wounded her.

NATURE.

Slow falls the eve; the hour is grave, profound.

The sweet, sad cuckoo makes the air resound With his two notes with springtide languor filled; And the tall pines, by eddying breezes thrilled, Tremble, as ocean echoes in a sh.e.l.l.

Else all is hushed.

I walk with heart unwell.

Slowly the shadow on my path descends.

I loiter o'er familiar forest bends, Whose calm grows deeper with the darkening west, O such a calm I feel my own unrest Melt in the peace of landscapes unforeseen; And in the east eve clothes with azure sheen The slender uplands with their billowing chain, Whose silhouettes shut in the distant plain; And on their tops their cloak of forests gleams Through the thin veil of mist that o'er them streams.

And all is vague, the ideal form of things Shimmers divine in deep imaginings, Gladdening the eye with grace ineffable; Seeing them, in the enchanted world we dwell Of soulless, happy beings who possess The calm we cry for of forgetfulness, We who desire in desolate hearts that pine, This sovereign gift of peace that makes divine; And most at eve, when quiet nights of spring Enchant the sky, the forest, and the ling.

The forest's darkness sways me at its will; And with a holy and unfathomed thrill I feel a dizzy longing grow in me: O not to think! nor wish! O not to be!...

THE HUMBLE HOPE.

Time goes, poor soul, and sterile are thy vows.

After our out.w.a.tched nights and feverish brows, What do we know, save that we nothing know?

Even as a child a b.u.t.terfly will chase, Far have I strayed in many a flowering place, And here I tremble in the afterglow.

Yet not despairing in my feebleness, But hoping that the Master still will bless The will to do good that my efforts show.