Part 11

The frenzy climbs, and sinks to rise still higher, Rolls like exasperated tides, And backwards glides, Until the moment when dawn fills the port, And Death, tired of the sport, Back to ships and homesteads sweeps and harries The limp debauch and human weed That on the pavement tarries.

It is the flabby, fulsome butcher's stall of luxury, Wherein Crime plants his knives that bleed, Where lightning madness stains Foreheads with rotting pains, Time out of mind erected on the frontiers that feed The city and the sea.

A CORNER OF THE QUAY.

When the wind sulks, and the dune dries, The old salts with uneasy eyes Hour after hour peer at the skies.

All are silent; their hands turning, A brown juice from their lips they wipe; Never a sound save, in their pipe, The dry tobacco burning.

That storm the almanac announces, Where is it? They are puzzled. The sea has smoothed her flounces. Winter is muzzled.

The cute ones shake their pate, And cross their arms, and puff. But mate by mate they wait, And think the squall is late, But coming sure enough.

With fingers slow, sedate Their finished pipe they fill; Pursuing, every salt, Without a minute's halt, The same idea still.

A boat sails up the bay, As tranquil as the day; Its keel a long net trails, Covered with glittering scales.

Out come the men: What ho? When will the tempest come? With pipe in mouth, still dumb, With bare foot on _sabot,_ The salts wait in a row.

Here they lounge about, Where all year long the stout Fishers' dames Sell, from their wooden frames, Herrings and anchovies, And by each stall a stove is, To warm them with its flames.

Here they spit together, Spying out the weather. Here they yawn and doze; Backs bent with many a squall, Rubbing it in rows, Grease the wall.

And though the almanac Is wrong about the squall, The old salts lean their back Against the wall, And wait in rows together, Watching the sea and the weather.

MY HEART IS AS IT CLIMBED A STEEP.

My heart is as it climbed a steep, To reach your kindness fathomlessly deep, And there I pray to you with swimming eyes.

I came so late to where you arc, You with your pity more than prodigal's surmise; I came from very far Unto the two hands you were holding out, Calmly, to me who stumbled on in doubt! I had in me so much tenacious rust, That gnawed with its rapacious teeth My confidence in myself;

I was so tired, I was so spent, I was so old with my mistrust, I was so tired, I was so spent With all the roads of my discontent.

So little I deserved the joy how deep Of seeing your feet light up my wilderness, That I am trembling still with it, and nigh to weep, And lowly for ever is the heart you bless.

WHEN I WAS AS A MAN THAT HOPELESS PINES.

When I was as a man that hopeless pines, And pitfalls all my hours were, You were the light that welcomed home the wanderer, The light that from the frosted window shines On snow at dead of night.

Your spirit's hospitable light Touched my heart, and hurt it not, Like a cool hand on one with fever hot! A element word of green, reviving hope Ran down the piled wrack of my heart's waste slope; Then came stout confidence and right good will, Frankness, and tenderness, and at the last, With hand in hand held fast, An evening of clear understanding and of storms grown still.

Since, though the summer followed winter's chill, Both in ourselves and under skies whose deathless fires With gold all pathways of our thoughts adorn, Though love has grown immense, a great flower born Of proud desires, A flower that, without cease, to grow still more, In our hearts begins as e'er before, I still look at the little light Which first shone out on me in my soul's night.

LEST ANYTHING ESCAPE FROM OUR EMBRACE.

Lest anything escape from our embrace, Which is as sacred as a Temple's holy place, And so that the bright love pierce with light the body's mesh, Together we descend into the garden of your flesh.

Your breasts are there like offerings made, You hold your hands out, mine to greet, And nothing can be worth the simple meat Of whisperings in the shade.

The shadow of white boughs caresses Your throat and face, and to the ground The blossoms of your tresses Fall unbound.

All of blue silver is the sky, The night is a silent bed of ease, The gentle night of the moon, whose breeze Kisses the lilies tall and shy.

I BRING TO YOU AS OFFERING TO-NIGHT.

I bring to you as offering to-night My body boisterous with the wind's delight; In floods of sunlight I have bathed my skin; My feet are clean as the grass they waded in; Soft are my fingers as the flowers they held; My eyes are brightened by the tears that welled Within them, when they looked upon the earth Strong without end and rich with festive mirth; Space in its living arms has snatched me up, And whirled me drunk as from the mad wine-cup; And I have walked I know not where, with pent Cries that would free my heart's wild wonderment; I bring to you the life of meadow-lands; Sweet marjoram and thyme have kissed my hands; Breathe them upon my body, all the fresh Air and its light and scents are in my flesh.

IN THE COTTAGE WHERE OUR PEACEFUL LOVE REPOSES.

In the cottage where our peaceful love reposes, With its dear old furniture in shady nooks, Where never a prying witness on us looks, Save through the casement panes the climbing roses,

So sweet the days are, after olden trial, So sweet with silence is the summer time, I often stay the hour upon the chime In the clock of oak-wood with the golden dial.

And then the day, the night is so much ours, That the hush of happiness around us starts To hear the beating of our clinging hearts, When on your face my kisses fall in showers.

THIS IS THE GOOD HOUR WHEN THE LAMP IS LIT.

This is the good hour when the lamp is lit. All is calm, and consoling, and dear, And the silence is such that you could hear A feather falling in it.

This is the good hour when to my chair my love will flit, As breezes blow, As smoke will rise, Gentle, slow. She says nothing at first--and I am listening; I hear all her soul, I surprise Its gushing and glistening, And I kiss her eyes.

This is the good hour when the lamp is lit. When hearts will say How they have loved each other through the day.

And one says such simple things: The fruit one from the garden brings; The flower that one has seen Opening in mosses green;

And the heart will of a sudden thrill and glow, Remembering some faded word of love Found in a drawer beneath a cast-off glove In a letter of a year ago.

THE SOVRAN RHYTHM.

Yet, after years and years, to Eve there came Impatience in her soul, and as a blight Of being the sapless, loveless flower of white And torrid happiness that cleaved the same; And once, when in the skies the tempest moved Fain had she risen and its lightning proved. Then did a sweet, broad shudder glide on her; And, in her deepest flesh to feel it, Eve Pressed her frail hands against her bosom's heave. The angel, when he felt the sleeper stir With violent abrupt awakening, And scattered air and arms, and body rocked, Questioned the night, but Eve remained unlocked, And silent. He in vain bespoke each thing That lived beside her by the naked sources, Birds, flowers, and mirrors of cold water-courses With which, perchance, her unknown thought arose Up from the ground; and one night when he bowed, And with his reverent fingers sought to close Her eyes, she leapt out of his great wing's shroud. O fertile folly in its sudden flare Beyond the too pure angel's baffled care! For while he stretched his arms out she was drifting Already far, and passionately lifting To braziers of the stars her body bare.

And all the heart of Adam, seeing her so, Trembled. She willed to love, he willed to know.

Awkward and shy he neared her, daring not To startle eyes that lost in reveries swam; From terebinths were fluttered scents, and from The soil's fermenting mounted odours hot.

He tarried, as if waiting for her hests; But she snatched up his hands, and o'er them hung, And kissed them slowly, long, with kiss that clung, And guided them to cool erected breasts.

But through her flesh they burned and burned. His mouth Had found the fires to set on flame his drouth, And his lithe fingers spread her streaming tresses O'er the long ardour of their first caresses.

Stretched by the cool of fountains both were lying, Seen of their passion-gleaming eyes alone. And Adam felt a sudden thought unknown Well in his heart to her fast heart replying.

Eve's body hid profound retreats as sweet As moss that by the noon's cool breeze is brushed; Gladly came sheaves undone to be their seat, Gladly the grass was by their loving crushed.

And when the spasm leapt from them at last, And held them bruised in arms strained stiff and tight, All the great amorous and feline night Tempered its breeze as over them it passed.

But on their vision burst A cloud far off at first, And whirling its dizziness with such a blast That it was all a miracle and a fright, Leapt from the dim horizon through the night. Adam raised Eve, and pressed unto him fast Her shivering body exquisitely wan. Livid and sulphurous the cloud came on, With thundering threats o'erflowing, and red lit. Suddenly on the spot Where the wild grass was hot With their two bodies that had loved on it, All the loud Rage of the dark, tremendous cloud Bit.

And the voice of the Lord God in its shadow sounded, Fires from the flowers and nightly bushes bounded; And where the dark the turning paths submerged, With sword in hand flamboyant angels surged; Lions were roaring at the fateful skies, Eagles hailed death with hoarsely boding cries; And by the waters all the palm-trees bent Under the same hard wind of discontent That beat on Eve and Adam on that sward, And in the vasty darkness drove them toward New human worlds more fervent than the old.

* * * * *

Now felt the man a magnet manifold Draw out his strength and mingle it with all; Ends he divined, and knew what gave them birth; His lover's lips with words grew magical; And his unwritten simple heart loved earth, And serviceable water, trees that hold Authority, and stones that broken shine. Fruits tempted him to take their placid gold, And the bruised grapes of the translucent vine Kindled his thirst which they were ripe to still. The howling beasts he chased awoke the skill That in his hands had slept; and pride dowered him With vehement strengths that foam and over-brim, That he himself his destiny might build.

And the woman, still more fair since by the man The marvellous shiver through her body ran, Lived in the woods of gold by perfumes filled And dawn, with all the future in her tears. In her awoke the first soul, made of pride And sweet strength blended with an unknown shame, At the hour when all her heart was shed in flame On the child sheltered in her naked side. And when the day burns glorious and is done, And feet of tall trees in the forests gleam, She laid her body full of her young dream On sloping rocks gilt by the setting sun; Her lifted breasts two rounded shadows showed Upon her skin as rosy as a shell, And the sun that on her pregnant body glowed Seemed to be ripening all the world as well. Valiant and grave she pondered, burning, slow,

How by her love the lot of men should grow, And of the beautiful and violent will Fated to tame the earth. Ye sacred cares And griefs, she saw you, you she saw, despairs! And all the darkest deeps of human ill. And with transfigured face and statelier bearing She took your hands in hers and kissed your brow; But you as well, men's grandeur madly daring, You lifted up her soul, and she saw how The limitless sands of time should by your tide Be buried under billows singing pride; In you she hoped, ideas keen in quest, Fervour to love and to desire the best In valiant pain and anguished joy; and so, One evening roving in the after-glow, When she beheld, come to a mossy plot, The gates of Paradise thrown open wide, And the angel beckoning, she turned aside Without desire of it, and entered not.

BIBLIOGRAPHY.

The translations in this Anthology have been taken from the following collections of poems:--

Bonmariage (Sylvain), Poemes, Societe francaise d'Editions modernes, Paris, 1909.

Braun (Thomas), Le Livre des Benedictions, Brussels, 1900.

Collin (Isi-), La Vallee Heureuse, Liege and Paris, 1903.

Dominique (Jean), L'Anemone des Mers, Mercure de France, 1906.

Elskamp (Max), La Louange de la Vie, Mercure de France, 1898.

----Enluminures, Lacomblez, Brussels, 1898.

Fontainas (Andre), Crepuscules, Mercure de France, 1897.

----La Nef Desemparee, Mercure de France, 1908.

Gerardy (Paul), Roseaux, Mercure de France, 1898.

Gilkin (Iwan), La Nuit (reprint of _La Damnation de l'Artiste_, 1890, and _Tenebres_,1892), Fischbacher, Paris, 1897. (New edition Mercure de France, 1910.)

Gille (Valere), La Cithare, Fischbacher, Paris, 1897.

Giraud (Albert), Hors du Siecle, Vanier, Paris, 1888.

----La Guirlande des Dieux, Lamertin, Brussels, 1910.

Kinon (Victor), L'Ame des Saisons, Larcier, Brussels, 1909.

Lerberghe (Charles van), Entrevisions, Mercure de France, 1898

----La Chanson d'Eve, Mercure de France, 1904.

Le Roy (Gregoire), La Chanson du Pauvre, Mercure de France, 1907.

----La Couronne des Soirs, Lamertin, Brussels, 1911.

Maeterlinck (Maurice), Serres Chaudes suivies de Quinze Chansons, Lacomblez, Brussels, 1906.

Marlow (Georges), L'Ame en Exil, Deman, Brussels, 1895.

Mockel (Albert), Chantefable un peu naive, Liege, 1891.

----Clartes, Mercure de France, 1902.

----_Vers et Prose_, 1910.

----La Flamme Immortelle (in preparation).

Ramaekers (Georges), Le Chant des Trois Regnes, Brussels, 1906.

Rency (Georges), Vie, Lacomblez, Brussels, 1897.

----Les Heures Harmonieuses, Brussels, 1897.

Severin (Fernand), Poemes, Mercure de France, 1907.

----_Le Centaure_, published in _La Vie intellectuelle_, Nov. 19th, 1909.

Verhaeren (Emile), Poemes, Mercure de France, 1900 (reprint of _Les Flamandes_, 1883; _Les Moines_, 1886; _Les Bords de la Route_, 1891).

----Poemes, nouvelle serie, Mercure de France, 5th edit., 1906 (reprint of _Les Soirs_, 1887; _Les Debacles_,1888; _Les Flambeaux Noirs_, 1890).

----Poemes, iiieme serie, Mercure de France, 5th edit., 1907 (reprint of _Les Villages illusoires_, 1895; _Les Apparus dans mes Chemins_, 1891; _Les Vignes de ma Muraille_, 1899).

----Les Villes tentaculaires, precedees des Campagnes hallucinees, Mercure de France, 1904.

----Toute La Flandre, La Guirlande des Dunes, Deman, Brussels, 1907.

----Les Heures Claires, suivie des Heures d'apres-midi, Mercure de France, 1909.

----Les Rythmes souverains, Mercure de France, 2nd edit., 1910.

ANTHOLOGIES.

Parnasse de la Jeune Belgique, Vanier, Paris, 1887.

Poetes belges d'expression francaise (par Pol de Mont), W. Hilarius, Almelo, 1899.

Anthologie des Poetes francais contemporains, ed. G. Walch, 3 vols., Ch. Delagrave, Paris, 1906-07.

Poetes d'Aujourd'hui, ed. Ad. van Bever and Paul Leautaud, 2 vols., 18th edit., Mercure de France, 1908.

LITERATURE (SELECTED).

Bazalgette (Leon), Emile Verhaeren, Sansot, Paris, 1907.

Beaunier (Andre), La Poesie Nouvelle, Mercure de France, 1902.

Edwards (Osman), Emile Verhaeren, _The Savoy_, Nov. 1897.

Gilbert (Eugene), Iwan Gilkin, Vanderpoorten, Ghent, 1908.

Gilkin (Iwan), Quinze Annees de Litterature, _la jeune Belgique,_ Dec. 1895.

----Les Origines Estudiantines de la "jeune Belgique" a l'Universite de Louvain, Editions de la Belgique artistique et litteraire, Brussels, 1909.

Gosso (Edmund), French Profiles, London, 1905.

----The Romance of Fairyland, with a note on a Belgian Ariosto, _The Standard_, 27th March 1908.

Harry (Gerard), Maurice Maeterlinck, translated by Alfred Allinson, London, 1910.

Hauser (Otto), Die belgische Lyrik von 1880-1900, Groszenhain, 1902.

Horrent (Desire), Ecrivains belges d'aujourd'hui, Lacomblez, Brussels, 1904.

Kinon (Victor), Portraits d'auteurs, Dechenne et Cie., Brussels, 1910.

Maeterlinck (Georgette Leblanc), Maeterlinck's Methods of Life and Work, _Contemporary Review_, Nov. 1910.

Mockel (Albert), Emile Verhaeren, Mercure de Franco, 1895.

----Charles van Lerberghe, Mercure de France, 1904.

Ramaekers (George), Emile Verhaeren, Edition de "La Lutte," Brussels, 1900.

Rency (Georges), Physionomies litteraires, Dechenne et Cie., Brussels, 1907.

Schlaf (Johannes), Emile Verhaeren, vol. xxxviii. of "Die Dichtung," Berlin, 1905.

Symons (Arthur), The Dawn by Emile Verhaeren, London, 1898.

----The Symbolist Movement in Literature, London, 1908.

Thompson (Vance), French Portraits, Boston, 1900.

Verhaeren (Emile), Les Lettres francaises en Belgique, Lamertin, Brussels, 1907.

Visan (Tancrede de), Sur l'oeuvre d'Alfred Mockel, _Vers et Prose_, April-June 1909.

Zweig (Stefan), Emile Verhaeren, Mercure de France, 1910.

----Emile Verhaeren, Insel-Verlag, Leipzig, 1910.

NOTES.

Page 3.--"Red Cheshire." The Dutch cheese so-called is "roux." Braun suggests that the adjective should be translated "red-haired."

Page 6.--"Those that we address with 'Sir.'" The cheese sold under the name of "Monsieur Fromage."

Page 13, _seq_.--Max Elskamp's poetry is considered somewhat obscure, and students may find the following equations of help: la Vierge = la femme pure; Jesus = l'enfance delicieuse; un dimanche solaire = une joie eclatante; un dimanche de coeur de bois = une joie egoiste; un soldat = brutalite; un juif = un marchand; un oiseau = la vie sous la forme du verbe; une fleur = la vie sous la forme de la senteur.

Page 13.--"Of Evening." Sunday is life, the week-days are death; the poet is the Sunday, therefore, since the week is about to begin again, he _must_ die. The third stanza means that the Truelove will never again weep for the fair days of betrothal or marriage which the old family ring she wears remind her of.

Page 18.--"Full of cripples." By night, because then the regulations forbidding begging are more easily set at defiance.

Page 19, line 6.--An allusion to the painting by Seghers, which represents the Virgin Mary with lilies, dahlias, and even snowdrops.

Page 23.--"Here the azure cherubs blow." An allusion to the painting by Fouquet in the Museum at Antwerp.

Page 47.--In Huysmans' novel, _A Rebours_, liqueurs are compared with musical instruments: curacao corresponds to the clarinet; kuemmel to the nasal oboe; kirsch to the fierce blast of a trumpet, etc.

Page 100.--Song vii. "Et c'est l'esclavage, n'est-ce pas? auquel s'astreint tout etre qui se devoue." Beaunier.

Page 107.--"The running water" is the image of the human soul, constantly changing, "en devenir dans le devenir." And yet there is in it a continued, though mobile unity, a permanent _rhythm_. It objectifies itself in space, but only exists in time, and Mockel sees its vital sign in those _aspirations_ which guide it towards itself, which bear it on to its fate. The unity of the mobile river, whose waves to-morrow will no longer be those they are to-day, is the continuous current that bears it, as though it aspired to the infinity of oceans.

Page 110.--The Goblet is woman, who, whether she inspires genius or sells her body, exists, for us, less by herself than by us; she is what we make her, like this goblet whose colours vary according to what one pours into it.

Page 111.--The Chandelier symbolizes the permanent drama enacted by Art, placed as it is between the frivolous world,--which tramples the rose of love under foot,--an the immortal splendour of Nature, which makes it feel its own feebleness.

Page 113.--The Angel is the legend of genius.

Page 116.--The Man with the lyre is the poet, who is less and less understood as he strikes the graver chords of his lyre.

Page 122.--The Eternal Bride is the Aspiration towards which we strive. strive.