Poems of Emile Verhaeren Part 6

When eve returns And the white flame of countless diamonds burns.

Like myriads of silent eyes intent, Th' unfathomed silence of the firmament.

XVII.

That we may love each other through our eyes Let us our glances lave, and make them clear, Of all the thousand glances that they here Have met, in this base world of servile lies.

The dawn is dressed in blossom and in dew, And chequered too With very tender light--it looks as though Frail plumes of sun and silver, through the mist, Glided across the garden to and fro, And with a soft caress the mosses kissed.

Our wondrous ponds of blue Tremble and wake with golden shimmerings; Swift emerald flights beneath the trees dart through.

And now the light from hedge and path anew Sweeps the damp dust, where yet the twilight clings.

XXI.

In hours like these, when through our dream of bliss So far from all things not ourselves we move, What l.u.s.tral blood, what baptism is this That bathes our hearts, straining toward perfect love?

Our hands are clasped, and yet there is no prayer, Our arms outstretched, and yet no cry is there; Adoring something, what, we cannot say.

More pure than we are and more far away, With spirit fervent and most guileless grown, How we are mingled and dissolved in one; Ah, how we live each other, in the unknown!

Oh, how absorbed and wholly lost before The presence of those hours supreme one lies!

And how the soul would fain find other skies To seek therein new G.o.ds it might adore; Oh, marvellous and agonizing joy, Audacious hope whereon the spirit hangs, Of being one day Once more the prey, Beyond even death, of these deep, silent pangs.

From "LES APPARUS DANS MES CHEMINS"

ST. GEORGE

Opening the mists on a sudden through, An Avenue!

Then, all one ferment of varied gold, With foam of plumes where the chamfrom bends Round his horse's head, that no bit doth hold, St. George descends!

The diamond-rayed caparison, Makes of his flight one declining path From Heaven's pity down upon Our waiting earth.

Hero and Lord Of the joyous, helpful virtues all.

Sonorous, pure and crystalline!

Let his radiance fall On my heart nocturnal and make it shine In the wheeling aureole of his sword!

Let the wind's soft silvern whispers sound And ring his coat of mail around, His battle-spurs amid the fight!

--He--the St. George--who shines so bright And comes, 'mid the wailings of my desire.

To seize and lift my poor hands higher Toward his dauntless valour's fire!

Like a cry great with faith, to G.o.d His lance St. George upraised doth hold; Crossing athwart my glance he trod.

As 'twere one tumult of haggard gold.

The chrism's glow on his forehead shone, The great St. George of duty high!

Beautiful by his heart, and by Himself alone!

Ring, all my voices of hope, ring on!

Ring forth in me Beneath fresh boughs of greenery, Down radiant pathways, full of sun; Ye glints of silvery mica, be Bright joy amid my stones--and ye White pebbles that the waters strew.

Open your eyes in my brooklets, through The watery lids that cover you; Landscape of gushing springs and sun, With gold that quivers on misty blue, Landscape that dwells in me, hold thou The mirror now To the fiery flights, that flaming roll, Of the great St. George toward my soul!

'Gainst the black Dragon's teeth and claws, Against the armour of leprous sores, The miracle and sword is he; On his breast-plate burneth Charity, And his gentleness sends hurtling back.

In dire defeat, the Instinct black.

Fires flecked with gold, that flashing turn, Whirlwinds of stars, those glories meet, About his galloping horse's feet.

Deep into my remembrance burn Their lightnings fleet!

He comes, a fair amba.s.sador, From white lands built with marble o'er.

Where grows, in glades beside the sea, Upon the tree Of goodness, fragrant gentleness.

That haven, too, he knows no less Where wondrous ships rock, calm and still.

That freights of sleeping angels fill; And those vast evenings, when below Upon the water, 'mid the skies'

Reflected eyes.

Islands flash sudden forth and glow.

That kingdom fair Whereof the Virgin ariseth Queen, Its lowly, ardent joy is he; And his flaming sword in the ambient air Vibrates like an ostensory-- The suddenly flashing St. George! behold, He strikes through my soul like a fire of gold!

He knows from what far wanderings I come: what mists obscure my brain; What dagger marks have deeply scarred My thought, and with black crosses marred: With what spent force, what anger vain.

What petty scorn of better things, --Yea, and with what a mask I came, Folly upon the lees of shame!

A coward was I; the world I fled To hide my head Within a huge and futile Me; I builded, beneath domes of Night, The blocks of marble, gold be-starred, Of a hostile science, endlessly Towards a height By oracles of blackness barred.

For Death alone is Queen of night.

And human effort is brightest born Only at dawn.

With opening flowers would prayer fain bloom, And their sweet lips hold the same perfume.

The sunbeams shimmering white that fall On pearly water, are for all Like a caress Upon our life: the dawn unfolds A counsel fair of trustfulness; And whoso hearkens thereto is saved From his slough, where never a sin was laved.

St. George in radiant armour came Speeding along in leaps of flame 'Mid the sweet morning, through my soul.

Young, beautiful by faith was he; He leaned the lower down toward me Even as I the lowlier knelt; Like some pure, golden cordial In secret felt.