Poems of Emile Verhaeren Part 4

Down in the river's deeps, ill-fate And black mischances breed and hatch.

Unseen of them, and lie in wait As for their prey. And these they catch With weary toil--believing still That simple, honest work is best-- At night, beneath the shifting mist Unkind and chill.

So hard and harsh, yon clock-towers tell.

With m.u.f.fled hammers, like a knell, The midnight hour.

From tower to tower So hard and harsh the midnights chime.

The midnights harsh of autumn time, The weary midnights' bell.

The crew Of fishers black have on their back Nought save a nameless rag or two; And their old hats distil withal, And drop by drop let crumbling fall Into their necks, the mist-flakes all.

The hamlets and their wretched huts Are numb and drowsy, and all round The willows too, and walnut trees, 'Gainst which the Easterly fierce breeze Has waged its feud.

No bayings from the forest sound, No cry the empty midnight cuts-- The midnight s.p.a.ce that grows imbrued With damp breaths from the ashy ground.

The fishers hail each other not-- Nor help--in their fraternal lot; Doing but that which must be done.

Each fishes for himself alone.

And this one gathers in his net, Drawing it tighter yet, His freight of petty misery; And that one drags up recklessly Diseases from their slimy bed; While others still their meshes spread Out to the sorrows that drift by Threateningly nigh; And the last hauls aboard with force The wreckage dark of his remorse.

The river, round its corners bending, And with the d.y.k.e-heads intertwined.

Goes hence--since what times out of mind?-- Toward the far horizon wending Of weariness unending.

Upon the banks, the skins of wet Black ooze-heaps nightly poison sweat.

And the mists are their fleeces light That curl up to the houses' height.

In their dark boats, where nothing stirs, Not even the red-flamed torch that blurs With halos huge, as if of blood.

The thick felt of the mist's white hood, Death with his silence seals the sere Old fishermen of madness here.

The isolated, they abide Deep in the mist--still side by side.

But seeing one another never; Weary are both their arms--and yet Their work their ruin doth beget.

Each for himself works desperately, He knows not why--no dreams has he; Long have they worked, for long, long years, While every instant brings its fears; Nor have they ever Quitted the borders of their river, Where 'mid the moonlit mists they strain To fish misfortune up amain.

If but in this their night they hailed each other And brothers' voices might console a brother!

But numb and sullen, on they go, With heavy brows and backs bent low, While their small lights beside them gleam, Flickering feebly on the stream.

Like blocks of shadow they are there.

Nor ever do their eyes divine That far away beyond the mists Acrid and spongy--there exists A firmament where 'mid the night.

Attractive as a loadstone, bright Prodigious planets shine.

The fishers black of that black plague, They are the lost immeasurably, Among the knells, the distance vague, The yonder of those endless plains That stretch more far than eye can see: And the damp autumn midnight rains Into their souls' monotony.

THE ROPE-MAKER

In his village grey At foot of the d.y.k.es, that encompa.s.s him With weary weaving of curves and lines Toward the sea outstretching dim, The rope-maker, visionary white.

Stepping backwards along the way, Prudently 'twixt his hands combines The distant threads, in their twisting play.

That come to him from the infinite.

When day is gone.

Through ardent, weary evenings, yon The whirr of a wheel can yet be heard; Something by unseen hands is stirred.

And parallel o'er the rakes, that trace An even s.p.a.ce From point to point along all the way, The flaxen hemp still plaits its chain Ceaseless, for days and weeks amain.

With his poor, tired fingers, nimble still.

Fearing to break for want of skill The fragments of gold that the gliding light Threads through his toil so scantily-- Pa.s.sing the walls and the houses by The rope-maker, visionary white, From depths of the evening's whirlpool dim, Draws the horizons in to him.

Horizons that stretch back afar.

Where strife, regrets, hates, furies are: Tears of the silence, and the tears That find a voice: serenest years, Or years convulsed with pang and throe: Horizons of the long ago, These gestures of the Past they shew.

Of old--as one in sleep, life, errant, strayed Its wondrous morns and fabled evenings through; When G.o.d's right hand toward far Canaan's blue Traced golden paths, deep in the twilight shade.

Of old, 'twas life exasperate, huge and tense, Swung savage at some stallion's mane--life, fleet.

With mighty lightnings flashing 'neath her feet, Upreared immensely over s.p.a.ce immense.

Of old, 'twas life evoking ardent will; And h.e.l.l's red cross and Heaven's cross of white Each marched, with gleam of steely armours' light.

Through streams of blood, to heavens of victory still.

Of old--life, livid, foaming, came and went 'Mid strokes of tocsin and a.s.sa.s.sin's knife; Proscribers, murderers, each with each at strife, While, mad and splendid. Death above them bent.

'Twixt fields of flax and of osiers red.

On the road where nothing doth move or tread, By houses and walls to left and right The rope-maker, visionary white, From depths of evening's treasury dim Draws the horizons in to him.

Horizons that stretch yonder far.

Where work, strifes, ardours, science are; Horizons that change--they pa.s.s and glide, And on their way They shew in mirrors of eventide The mourning image of dark To-day.