Full text of "Poems of Emile Verhaeren"
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1
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POEMS OF EMILE
VERHAEREN
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)EMS OF EMILE
i: R H A E R E N
^El.ECTED t?- RENDERED
T N T f > ENGLISH BY
\LxMA STRETTELL
• i FH A r< )R IRAIT OF THE
AUr;;OR BY
;OHN S SARGENT
,0\ ; JOHN ' -Nh. THE BODl.KY ;;FAD
': iOH\ LAKE CO^iPA"^;v. MCMXV
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POEMS OF EMILE
VERHAEREN
SELECTED ;:r RENDERED
INTO ENGLISH BY
ALMA STRETTELL
WITH A PORTRAIT OF THE
AUTHOR BY
JOHN S. SARGENT
LONDON : JOHN LANE, THE BODLEY HEAD
NEW YORK : JOHN LANE COMPANY, MCMXV
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mrRODucroRT note
T^MILE VERHAEREN, nmarkabU amon^ the
'^^ brilliant group of writers repnsinting " Young BelpuMy*
and one who has been recognized by the literary world as
holding a foremost place among the lyric poets of the day^ was
born at St. Amandy near Antwerp, in 1855. His childhood
was passed on the banks of the Scheldt y in the midst of the
wide-spreading Flemish plains j a country of mist and flood, of
dykes and marshes, and the impressions he received from the
mysterious, melancholy character of these surroundings have
Produced a marked and lasting influence upon his work. Yet
the other characteristics with which it is stamped — the wealth
of imaginationj the wonderful descriptive power and sense oj
colour, which set the landscape before one as a picture — suggest
rather the possibility of Spanish blood in the po;tes veins.
f^erhaeren entered early in life upon the literary career.
After some time spent at a college in Ghent, he became a
student at the University of Louvain, and here he founded
and edited a journal called La Semaine^ in which work he
was assisted by the singer Fan Dyck, and by his friend,
the publisher, Edmond Deman. He also formed, about
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this tim;y a close friendship with Maeterlinck, In l88i
Verhaeren was called to the Bar at Brussels^ but soon gave up
his legal career to devote himself entirely to literature. In
1883 hi published his first volume ofpoemsy and shortly after-
wards became one of the editors of L*Art Moderne, to
whichy as well as to other contemporary periodicals^ he was
for many years a contributor. In 1892 he founded^ with the
help of two other friends^ the " Section of Art '* in the
" House of the People^^ a popular institution in Brussels^
where performances of the best musicy as well as lectures upon
literary and artistic subjects^ were given. In spite^ however y
of the work which all this entailed^ and of the many interests
created by his ardent appreciation of the various branches of
art and literature^ Verhaeren continued to labour unceasingly
at his poetical work. He has now for many years ceased to
live in Brussels and spends his winters in Paris and his
summers at his country-house in Belgium^ which bears the
quaint name of " Cailloux-^ui-Biquey^ and lies near the
French frontier J by Maubeuge. Between the year 1 883 and
the present time he has brought out the following volumes :
Les Flamandes, Les Moines, Les Soirs, Les D;b;cles,
Les Flambeaux Noirs, Les Apparus dans mes Chemins,
Les Campagnes Hallucin;es, Les Villages Illusoires, Les
Villes Teataculaires, Les Heures Claires, Les Visages de
la Vie, Les Forces Tumultueuses, and La Multiple
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Splendeur. To these must be added four dramatic pieces :
Les Aubes, Philippe II, H;l;ne de Sparte, and Le
Clo;tre. Thisy the finest of the dramas^ was written fifteen
years agOy hut we have only recently had the privilege of seeing
it on the London Stage.
Throughout this entire series the intellectual and spiritual
development of the poet may he traced^ from the more material-
istic tone which maris his earliest worky and the pessimistic^
emotional strain — the throes of a soul in revolt against fate —
which are so powerfully portrayed in Les D;b;cles and
Les Flambeaux Noirs, to the tender ^ serene mysticism which
characterizes the later poems of Les Apparus dans mes
Chemins, and the wonderful sympathy with Nature — even
in her saddest aspects — the suhtle power of endowing those
aspects with a profound and ennobling symbolism^ which dis*
tinguish the beautiful poems named Les Villages Illusoires.
Les Heures Claires is the title of a volume of love-songs — an
exquisite record of golden hours spent in a garden at spring-
time. *
In his later volumes^ and specially in La Multiple
Splendeur, Verhaeren yet further unfolds the spiritual ideas
which he has drawn from his contemplation of Nature^ of
her beauties and all that she symbolizes^ and of the human
element so ardently working out its development upon her
field.
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" / learnt to know^^ he saysy " that Beauty in all its ex-
pressions was what awoke in me the loftiest ideasy and that
the supreme Beauty was to be found in man. And so I feel
that my earlier Nature-poems are destined^ as it were^for a
background on which to paint my higher vision — the progress
of man towards the ideal life!^
In style Verhaeren is the apostle of the " vers libre " ;
and his handling of rhyme and rhythm^ his coining of words
where he finds the French vocabulary inadequate^ are both
daring and suggestive. He has undeniably forged a rare and
powerful weapon of poetic eloquence^ and shows a wealth of
imagery y a depth of thought y and a subtlety of expression which
could not have been imprisoned behind the bars of a rigid
convention. English readers have been much accustomed by
their own poets to the " vers librey* and it is not so muchy
thereforey for my adherence to this form as for my failure
adequately to render Verhaeren* s peculiar and striking beauty
of language that I beg their indulgence for the following
translations.
To make a typical selection from a poefs work is always
difficult ; in this small volumey first published some years agOy
the field of selection had been limited to the three volumes of
what may be called Verhaeren* s middle period ; and we
are now able to add only three of the later poemsy as
a new edition seems called for immediatefyy at this moment
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when the interest and sympathy of the whole world are
centred upon the tragic sufferings of Belgium, The vividness of
the pictures here presented of the silent Flemish plains^ the pitiless
rainy the long dykes wrapped in misty the lonely^ wind-
swept villages^ the blazing belfryy must indeed come home to us
all with poignant forcey for not only are they a fitting back-
ground for the Belgian people* s unutterable woey but they are
also the surroundings among which our own men are in the
throes of their life-and-death struggle. The symbolic meanings
which the poet attaches to many of these pictures will be
felt with no less force. The first impression is one of sad
endurance — but I am glad to remember that in the later pages
of this volume the sun breaks throughy and that glorious
St, Georgey with his special message to English heartSy brings
a note of good cheer to all militant spirits,
London, January 191 5
For permission to publish the last three poems in
this volume, we are indebted to the courtesy of Messrs.
Constable & Co., to whom the English copyright of Mr.
Verhaeren's later works belongs, and who are about to
publish a series of them.
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CONTENTS
INTRODUCTORY NOTE S
From «LES VILLAGES ILLUSOIRES"
RAIN 17
THE FERRYMAN 21
THE SILENCE 25
THE BELL-RINGER 29
SNOW 33
THE GRAVE-DIGGER 36
THE WIND 43
THE FISHERMEN 46
THE ROPE-MAKER 52
From «LES HEURES CLAIRES"
I 61
vni 63
XVII 65
XXI 66
From «LES APPARUS DANS MES CHEMINS"
ST. GEORGE 71
THE GARDENS 77
SHE OF THE GARDEN 79
From «LA MULTIPLE SPLENDEUR"
THE GLORY OF THE HEAVENS 83
LIFE 87
JOY 89
II
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POEMS OF EMILE
VERHAEREN
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From
«LES VILLAGES
ILLUSOIRES "
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RAIN
T ONG as unending threads, the long-drawn rain
•*"^ Interminably, with its nails of grey,
Athwart the dull grey day.
Rakes the green window-pane —
So infinitely, endlessly, the rain,
The long, long rain.
The rain.
Since yesternight it keeps unravelling
Down from the rrayed and flaccid rags that cling
About the sullen sky.
The low black sky ;
Since yesternight, so slowly, patiently.
Unravelling its threads upon the roads.
Upon the roads and lanes, with even fall
Continual.
Along the miles
That 'twixt the meadows and the suburbs lie,
B 17
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Bf.r;sk^'hUi;ft;;in^iAY, be.nt, the files
waggons, with their awnings arched and tall,
in sweat and steam, toil slowly by
outline vague as of a funeral.
the ruts, unbroken, regular.
out parallel so far
when night comes they seem to join the sky,
hours the water drips ;
every tree and every dwelling weeps,
as they are with it.
the long rain, tenaciously, with rain
.
rivers, through each rotten dyke that yields,
their swollen wave upon the fields.
coils of drowned hay
far away ;
the wild breeze
the alders and the walnut-trees ;
-deep in water great black oxen stand,
their bellowings sinister on high
the distorted sky ;
now the night creeps onward, all the land.
and plain, i
8
by
cumbered with her clinging shades immense,
still there is the rain.
long, long rain,
soot, so fine and dense.
long, long rain,
— ^and its threads identical.
its nails systematical.
the garment, mesh by mesh amain.
destitution for each house and wall,
fences that enfold
villages, neglected, grey, and old :
of rags and linen shreds that fall
frayed-out wisps from upright poles and tall.
pigeon-houses glued against the thatch,
windows with a patch
dingy paper on each lowering pane.
with straight-set gutters, side by side
the broad stone gables crucified,
, uniform, forlorn.
rising from its hillock like a horn.
afar and chapels round about,
rain, the long, long rain.
all the winter wears and wears them out.
by
, with its many wrinkles, the long rain
its grey nails, and with its watery mane ;
long rain of these lands of long ago,
rain, eternal in its torpid flow !
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FERRYMAN ^
I ^HE ferryman, a green reed 'tw;xt his teeth,
With hand on oar, against the current strong
rowed and rowed so long.
she, alas ! whose voice was hailing him
the far waves dim,
further o'er the far waves seemed to float.
further backward, 'mid the mists, remote.
casements with their eyes,
dial-faces of the towers that rise
the shore.
, as he strove and laboured more and more,
frantic bending of the back in two,
start of savage muscles strained anew.
oar was suddenly riven.
by the current driven,
lash of heavy breakers, out to sea.
by
she, whose voice that hailed him he could hear
*mid the mist and wind, she seemed to wring
hands with gestures yet more maddening
him who drew not near.
ferryman with his surviving oar
harder yet to work, and more and more
strove, till every joint did crack and start.
fevered terror shook his very heart.
rudder broke
one sharp, rude stroke ;
, too, the current drove relentlessly, A
dreary shred of wreckage, out to sea.
casements by the pier.
eyes immense and feverish open wide.
dials of the towers — those windows drear
straight from mile to mile beside
banks of rivers — obstinately gaze
this madman, in his headstrong craze
his mad voyage 'gainst the tide,
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she, who yonder in the mist-clouds hailed
still so desperately, she wailed and wailed,
head outstretched in fearful, straining haste
the unknown of the outstretched waste.
ady as o ne that had in bronze been cast^
the blenched, grey tempest and the blast.
ferryman his single oar yet plied.
, spite of all, still lashed and bit the tide.
old eyes, with hallucinated gaze.
that far distance — an illumined haze —
the voice sounded, coming toward him still.
the cold skies, lamentable, shrill.
last oar broke —
this the current hurried at one stroke.
a frail straw, toward the distant sea.
ferryman, with arms dropped helplessly.
on his bench, forlorn,
loins with vain efforts broken, torn.
, his barque struck somewhere, as by chance.
turned a glance
by
the bank behind him then — and saw
had not left the shore.
casements and the dials, one by one,
huge eyes gazing in a foolish stare.
the ruin of his ardour there ;
still the old, tenacious ferryman
in his teeth — for God knows when, indeed-
the green reed.
by
SILENCE T
? VER since ending of the summer weather,
When last the thunder and the lightning broke,
themselves upon it at one stroke,
Silence has not stirred, there in the heather.
round about stand ^tcf p^p<^ «strai ght as stake s, ^
nd each its bell between its finger s shakes ;
round about, with their three-storied loads.
tea ms prowl down the roads ;
round about, where'er the pine woods end.
wheel creaks on along its rutty bed.
not a sound is strong enough to rend
space intense and dead.
summer, thunder-laden, last was heard.
Silence has not stirred ;
the broad heath-land, where the nights sink down
the sand-hills brown,
by
the endless thickets closely set,
the far borders of the far-away,
It yet.
the winds disturb not as they go
boughs of those long larches, bending low
the marsh-water lies.
which Its vacant eyes
at themselves unceasing, stubbornly;
sometimes, as on their way they move,
noiseless shadows of the clouds above.
of some great bird's hov'ring flight on high.
It in passing by.
the last bolt that scored the earth aslant,
has pierced the Silence dominant.
those who cross Its vast immensity.
at twilight or at dawn it be.
is not one but feels
dread of the Unknown that It instils ;
ample force supreme. It holds Its sway
iiixt same for aye.
walls of blackest fir-trees bar from sight
outlook toward the paths of hope and light;
by
, pensive junipers
from far the passing travellers ;
, narrow paths stretch their straight lines unbent,
they fork oflF in curves malevolent ;
the sun, ever shifting, ceaseless lends
aspects to the mirage whither tends
.
the last bolt was forged amid the storm.
polar Silence at the corners four
the wide heather-land has stirred no more.
shepherds, whom their hundred years have worn
things all dislocate and out of gear.
their old dogs, ragged, tired-out, and torn.
watch It, on the soundless lowlands near,
downs of gold beflecked with shadows' flight.
down immensely there beside the night.
, at the curves and corners of the mere.
waters creep with fear ;
heather veils itself, grows wan and wbitc ;
the leaves listen upon all the bushes,
the in cej^ji ery sunset hushes
Its face his cries of brandished light.
by
in the hamlets that about It lie,
the thatches of their hovels small
terror dwells of feeling It is nigh,
, though It stirs not, dominating all.
with dull despair and helplessness,
Its presence they crouch motionless.
though upon the watch — and dread to see.
rifts of vapour, open suddenly
evening, in the moon, the argent eyes
Its mute mysteries.
by
BELL-RINGER
^ON, in the depths of the evening's track, ^
Like a herd of blind bullocks that seek their fellows,
, as in terror, the tempest bellows.
suddenly, there, o'er the gables black
the church, in the twilight, around it raises.
scored with lightnings the steeple blazes.
the old bell-ringer, frenzied with fear,
gaping^ yet speechless, draw hastening near.
the knell of alarm that with strokes of lead
rings, helves forth in a tempest of dread
frantic despair that throbs in his head.
the cross at the height
its summit brandished, the lofty steeple
the crimson mane
the fire o'er the plain
the dream-like horizons that bound the night ;
city nocturnal is filled with light ;
by
face of the swift-gathered crowds doth people
fears and with clamours both street and lane ;
walls turned suddenly dazzling bright
dusky panes drink the crimson flood
draughts of blood.
, knell upon knell, the old ringer doth cast
frenzy and fear o'er the country vast.
steeple, it seems to be growing higher
the horizon that shifts and quivers,
to be flying in gleams of fire
o'er the lakes and the swampy rivers.
slates, like wings
sparks and spangles, afar it flings,
fly toward the forests across the night :
in their passage the fires exhume
hovels and huts from their folds of gloom,
them suddenly all alight.
the crashing fall of the steeple's crown
cross to the brazier's depth drops down.
, twisted and torn in the fiery fray,
Christian arms are crushed like prey.
by
might and main
bell-ringer sounds his knell abroad,
though the flames would burn his God.
fire
-like hollows its way yet higher, / *
Twixt walls of stone, up the steeple's height ; i
the archway and lofty stage
, swinging in light, the bell bounds with rage.
daws and the owls, with wild, long cry,
screeching by ;
the fast-closed casements their heads they smite,
"n in the smoke-drifts their pinions light.
, broken with terror and bruised with flight, i
, 'mid the surging crowd, '
dead outright.
old man sees toward his brandished bells
rlitnhin^ fir ^
hands of boiling fy^jd g^r^*^^^» nighf '^
steeple
like a thicket of crimson bushes.
here a branch of flame that rushes
the belfry boards between ;
by
and savage flames, they cling,
curves that plant-like curl and lean.
every joist, round every pulley.
monumental beams, whence ring
bells, that voice forth frenzied folly.
fear and anguish spent, the ringer
his own knell
his ruined bell. A
final crash.
dust and plaster in one grey flash.
the whole steeple's height in pieces ;
like some great cry slain, it ceases
in an instant, the knell's dull rage.
ancient tower --
sudden to lean and darkly lower ;
with heavy thuds, as from stage to stage
headlong bound.
bells are heard
and crashing toward the ground.
yet the old ringer has never stirred.
, scooping the moist earth out, the bell
thus his coffin, and grave as well.
by
SNOW T
TNINTERRUPTEDLY falls the snow,
Like meagre, long wool-strands, scant and slow 0
*er the meagre, long plain disconsolate,
with lovelessness, warm with hate.
, infinite falls the snow.
a moment's time.
, in a moment's time ;
the houses it falls and drops, the snow.
, whitening them o*er with rime ;
falls on the sheds and their palings below.
myriad-wise, it falls and lies
ridg;d waves
the churchyard hollows between the graves.
apron of all inclement weather
roughly unfastened, there on high ;
apron of woes and misery
shaken by wind-gusts violently c
by
/
on the hamlets that crouch together
the dull horizon-sky»
frost creeps down to the very bones,
want creeps in through the walls and stones :
, snow and want round the souls creep close, —
^The heavy snow diaphanous —
the stone-cold hearths and the fiameless souls
wither away in their huts and holes.
hamlets bare
, white as Death lie yonder, where
crooked roadways cross and halt ;
branching traceries of salt
trees, all crystallized with frost.
forth their boughs, entwined and crost,
the ways, as on they go
far procession o'er the snow.
here and there, some ancient mill.
light, pale mosses aggregate.
on a sudden, standing straight
a snare upon its lonely hill.
roofs and sheds, down there below,
November dawned, have been wrestling still,
by
contrary blasts, with the hurricane ;
, thick and full, yet falls amain
infinite snow, with its weary weight. O
'er the meagre, long plain disconsolate.
journeys the snow afar so fleet,
every cranny, on every trail ; ^
Always the snow and its winding-sheet, '
The mortuary snow so pale,
snow, unfruitful and so pale,
wild and vagabond tatters hurled
the limitless winter of the world* 3
S
by
GRAVE-DIGGER
the garden yonder of yews and death, ^
There sojourneth A
man who toils, and has toiled for aye,
the dried-up ground all day.
willows, surviving their own dead selves.
there around him as he delves.
a few poor flowers, disconsolate
the tempest and wind and wet
them with ceaseless scourge and fret.
ground is nothing but pits and cones.
graves in every corner yawn ;
frost in the winter cracks the stones,
when the summer in June is born
hears, 'mid the silence that pants for breath,
germinating and life of Death
, among the lifeless bones.
by
ages longer than he can know,
grave-digger brings his human woe,
never wears out, and lays its head
down in that earthly bed.
all the surrounding roads, each day
come toward him, the coffins white.
come in processions infinite;
come from the distances far away,
corners obscure and out-of-the-way,
the heart of the towns — and the wide-spreading
.
limitless plain, swallows up their track ;
come with their escort of people in black,
every hour, till the day doth wane ;
at early dawn the long trains forlorn
again.
grave-digger hears far off the knell,
weary skies, of the passing bell,
ages longer than he can tell.
grief of his each coffin carrieth ;
wild desires toward evenings dark with death
by
here : his mournings for be knows not what :
are his tears, for ever on this spot
in their shrouds ; his memories,
gaze worn-out from travelling through the years
far, to bid him call to mind the fears
which their souls are dying — and with these
side by side
shattered body of his broken pride.
heroism, to which nought replied,
here all unavailing :
courage, 'neath its heavy armour failing,
his poor valour, gashed upon the brow.
, and crumbling in corruption now.
grave-digger watches them come into sight,
long, slow roads,
toward him, with all their loads
coffins white.
are his keenest thoughts, that one by one
lukewarm soul hath tainted and undone ;
his white loves of simple days of yore.
lewd and tempting mirrors sullied o'er ;
proud, mute vows that to himself he made
here — for he hath scored and cancelled them.
one may cut and notch a diadem }
by
here, inert and prone, his will is laid,
gestures flashed like lightning keen before,
that he now can raise in strength no more.
grave-digger digs to the sound of the knell '
Mid the yews and the deaths in yonder dell,
ages longer than he can tell.
is his dream — born in the radiant glow
joy and young oblivion, long ago —
in black fields of science he let go.
he hath clothed with flame and embers bright, —
Red wings plucked oflF from Folly in her flight —
he hath launched toward inaccessible
afar, toward the distance there.
golden conquest of the Impossible,
that the limitless, refractory sky
back to him again, or it has ere
much as touched the immobile mystery.
grave-digger turneth it round and round —
arms by toil so weary made.
arms so thin, and strokes of spade —
what long times ?— the dried-up ground.
by
, for his anguish and remorse, there throng
denied to creatures in the wrong ;
here, the tears, the prayers, the silent cries.
would not list to in his brothers' eyes.
insults to the gentle, and the jeer
time the humble bent their knees, are here :
denials, and a bitter store
arid sarcasms, oft poured out before
that in the shadow stands
outstretched hands.
grave-digger, weary, yet eager as Mrell,
his pain to the sound of the knell.
strokes of the spade turns round and round
weary sods of the dried-up ground.
— fear-struck dallyings with suicide ;
, that conquer hours that would decide :
— the terrors of dark crime and sin
felt with frenzied fingers thin :
fierce craze and the fervent rage to be
man who lives of the extremity
his own fear j
then, too, doubt immense and wild aflB-ight,
by
madness, with its eyes of marble white,
all are here.
head a prey to the dull knell's sound,
terror the grave-digger turns the ground
strokes of the spade, and doth ceaseless cast
dried*up earth upon his past.
slain days, and the present, he doth see.
each quivering thrill of life to be.
drop by drop, through fists whose fingers start.
the future blood of his red heart ;
with teeth that grind and crush, each part
that his future's body, limb by limb.
there is but a carcase left to him ;
shewing him, in coffins prisoned.
ever they be born, his longings dead.
grave-digger yonder doth hear the knell,
heavy yet, of the passing bell.
up through the mourning horizons doth swell.
if the bells, with their haunting swing,
stop on a day that heart-breaking ring I
the endless procession of corse after corse,
by
the highways no more of his long remorse !
the biers, with the prayers and the tears.
yet follow the biers ;
halt by crucifix now, and by shrine,
take up once more their mournful line ;
the backs of men, upon trestles Dorne,
follow their uniform march forlorn ;
each field and each garden-wall,
beneath the sign -posts tall,
along by the vast Unknown,
terror points horns from the corner-stone.
old man, broken and propless quite.
them still from the infinite
toward him — and hath beside
to do, but in earth to hide
multiple death, thus bit by bit,
, with fingers irresolute, plant on it
so hastily, day by day.
what long times — ^he cannot say.
by
WIND /
CROSSING the infinite length of the moorland,
Here comes the wind,
wind with his trumpet that heralds November ;
and infinite, crossing the downs,
comes the wind
tcareth himself and doth fiercely dismember ;
heavy breaths turbulent smiting the towns,
savage wind comes, the fierce wind of November !
bucket of iron at the wells of the farmyards,
bucket and pulley, it creaks and it wails ;
cisterns of farmyards, the pulleys and pails
creak and they cry.
whole of sad death in their melancholy.
wind, it sends scudding dead leaves from the birches
o*er the water, the wind of November,
The ssivfige, fierce wind ;
The boughs of the trees for the birds' nests it searches,
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To bite them and grind.
The wind, as though rasping down iron, grates past,
And, furious and fast, from afar combs the cold
And white avalanches of winter the old,
The savage wind combs them so furious and fast,
The wind of November.
From each miserable shed
The patched garret-windows wave wild overhead
Their foolish, poor tatters of paper and glass.
As the savage, fierce wind of November doth pass !
And there on its hill
Of dingy and dun-coloured turf, the black mill.
Swift up from below, through the empty air slashing.
Swift down from above, like a lightning-stroke flashing.
The black mill so sinister moweth the wind.
The savage, fierce wind of November !
The old, ragged thatches that squat round their steeple
Are raised on their roof-poles, and fall with a clap.
In the wind the old thatches and pent-houses flap.
In the wind of November, so savage and hard.
The crosses — and they are the arms of dead people —
The crosses that stand in the narrow churchyard
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Fall prone on the sod
Like some great flight of black, in the acre of God.
The wind of November !
Have you met him, the savage wind, do you remember?
Did he pass you so fleet,
— Where, yon at the cross, the three hundred roads
meet —
With distressfulness panting, and wailing with cold ?
Yea, he who breeds fears and puts all things to flight,
Did you see him, that night
When the moon he overthrew — when the villages, old •>
In their rot and decay, past endurance and spent,
Cried, wailing like beasts, 'neath the hurricane bent ?
Here comes the wind howling, that heralds dark weather.
The wind blowing infinite over the heather.
The wind with his trumpet that heralds November !
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THE FISHERMEN
^T^HE spot is flaked with mist, that fills,
^ Thickening into rolls more dank,
The thresholds and the window-sills,
And smokes on every bank.
The river stagnates, pestilent
With carrion by the current sent
This way and that — and yonder lies
The moon, just like a woman dead.
That they have smothered overhead.
Deep in the skies.
In a few boats alone there gleam
Lamps that light up and magnify
The backs, bent over stubbornly.
Of the old fishers of the stream,
Who since last evening, steadily,
—For God knows what night-fishery —
Have let their black nets downward slow
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Into the silent water go.
The noisome water there below.
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 muffled 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.
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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 hayings from the forest sound.
No cry the empty midnight cuts —
The midnight space 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
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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 dyke-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 haloes 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,
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so
But seeing one another never $
Weary are both their arms*«*and yet
Their work their rui;i 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
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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.
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THE ROPE-MAKER
TN his village grey
^ At foot of the dykes, that encompass 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 space
From point to point along all the way,
The flaxen hemp still plaits its chain
Ceaseless, for days and weeks amain.
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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 —
Passing 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 God'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,
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With mighty lightnings flashing 'neath her feet,
Upreared immensely over space immense.
Of old, 'twas life evoking ardent will ;
And hell'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 assassin'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 cb«nge<— they pass and glide.
And Qji their way
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They shew ;n mirrors of eventide
The mourning image of dark To- day.
Here — writhing fires that never rest nor end
Where, in one giant eflFort all employed,
Sages cast down the Gods, to change the void
Whither the flights of human science tend.
Here — ^'tis a room where thought, assertive, saith
That there are weights exact to gauge her by,
That inane ether, only, rounds the sky.
And that in phials of glass men breed up death.
Here — 'tis a workshop, where, all fiery bright,
Matter intense vibrates with fierce turmoil
In vaults where wonders new, 'mid stress and toil,
Are forged, that can absorb space, time, »nd night»
— A palace — of an architecture grown
Effete, and weary 'neath its hundred years,
Whence voices vast invoke, instinct with f;ars.
The thunder in its flights toward the Unknown»
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On the silent, even road — his eyes
Still fixed toward the waning light
That skirts the houses and walls as it dies —
The rope-maker, visionary white,
From depths of the evening's halo dim
Draws the horizons in to him.
Horizons that are there afar
Where light, hope, wakenings, strivings are ;
Horizons that he sees defined
As hope for some future, far and kind,
Beyond those distant shores and faint
That evening on the clouds doth paint.
Yon — *mid that distance calm and musical
Twin stairs of gold suspend their steps of blue,
The sage doth climb them, and the seer too,
Starting from sides opposed toward one goal.
Yon — contradiction's lightning-shocks lose power.
Doubt's sullen hand unclenches to the light,
The eye sees in their essence laws unite
Rays scattered once 'mid doctrines of an hour.
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Yon — ^keenest spirits pierce beyond the land
Of seeming and of death. The heart hath ease,
And one would say that Mildness held the keys
Of the colossal silence in her hand.
Up yon — the God each soul is, once again
Creates, expands, gives, finds himself in all ;
And rises higher, the lowlier he doth fall
Before meek tenderness and sacred pain.
And there is ardent, living peace — its urns
Of even bliss ranged 'mid these twilights, where
— Embers of hope upon the ashen air —
Each great nocturnal planet steadfiist burns.
In his village at foot of the dykes, that bend.
Sinuous, weary, about him and wend
Toward that distance of eddying light.
The rope-maker, visionary white.
Along by each house and each garden wall.
Absorbs in himself the horizons all.
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From
" LES HEURES
CLAIRES "
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/^H, splendour of our joy and our delight,
^^^ Woven of gold amid the silken air !
See the dear house among its gables light,
And the green garden, and the orchard there !
Here is the bench with apple-trees overhead
Whence the light spring is shed,
With touch of petals falling slow and soft ;
Here branches luminous take flight aloft.
Hovering, like some bounteous presage, high
Against this landscape's clear and tender sky.
Here lie, like kisses from the lips dropt down
Of yon frail azure upon earth below.
Two simple, pure, blue pools, and like a crown
About their edge, chance flowers artless grow.
O splendour of our joy and of our selves 1
Whose life doth feed, within this garden bright.
Upon the emblems of our own delight.
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What are those forms that yonder slowly pass ?
Our two glad souls are they,
That pastime take, and stray
Along the terraces and woodland grass ;
Are these thy breasts, are these thine eyes, these two
Golden-bright flowers of harmonious hue ?
These grasses, hanging like some plumage rare.
Bathed in the stream they ru;ie by their touch.
Are they the strands of thy smooth, glossy hair ?
No shelter e'er could match yon orchard white.
Or yonder house amid its gables light,
And garden, that so blest a sky controls.
Weaving the climate dear to both our souls.
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VIII
A s in the guileless, golden age, my heart
I gave thee, even like an ample flower
That opens in the dev^r's bright morning hour ;
My lips have rested where the frail leaves part.
I plucked the flower — it came
From meadows whereon grow the flowers of flame :
Speak to it not — 'tis best that we control
Words, since they needs are trivial 'twixt us two ;
All words are hazardous, for it is through
The eyes that soul doth hearken unto soul.
That flower that is my heart, and where secure
My heart's avowal hides,
Simply confides
Unto thy lips that she is clear and pure,
Loyal and good — ^and that one's trust toward
A virgin love is like a child's in God.
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Let wit and wisdom flower upon the height,
Along capricious paths of vanity ;
And give we welcome to sincerity,
That holds between her fingers crystal-bright
Our two clear hearts : for what so beautiful
As a confession made from soul to soul,
When eve returns
And the white flame of countless diamonds burns,
Like myriads of silent eyes intent,
Th' unfathomed silence of the firmament ?
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XVII
^T^HAT 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.
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XXI
TN hours like these, when through our dream of bliss
"*• So fer from all things not ourselves we move,
What lustral 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 gods it might adore ;
Oh, marvellous and agonizing joy,
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Audacious hope whereon the spirit hangs,
Of being one day
Once more the prey,
Beyond even death, of these deep, silent pangs.
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From
«LES APPARUS DANS
MES CHEMINS"
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ST. GEORGE
/^PENING the mists on a sudden through,
^^^ An Avenue !
Then, all one ferment of varied gold,
With foam of plumes where the chamfron bends
Round his horse's head, that no bit doth hold,
St. George descends I
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 !
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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 God
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.
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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 &ir ambassador,
From white lands built with marble o'er.
Where grows, in glades beside the sea,
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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 I
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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
Toward a height
By oracles of blackness barred.
For Death alone is Queen of night,
And human eSbrt is brightest born
Only at dawn.
With opening flowers would prayer &in 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 ;
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He leaned the lower down toward me
Even as I the lowlier knelt ;
Like some pure, golden cordial
In secret felt,
He filled me with his soaring strength,
And with sweet fear most tenderly.
Before that vision's dignity,
Into his pale, proud hand at length
I cast the blood my pain had spent.
Then, laying upon me as he went
A charge of valour, and the sign
Of the cross on my brow from his lance divine.
He sped upon his shining road
Straight, with my heart, toward his God.
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THE GARDENS
^TT^HE landscape now reveals a change ;
"^ A stair — that twined elm-boughs hold
Enclosed 'mid hedges mystic, strange —
Inaugurates a green and gold
Vision of gardens, range on range.
Each step's a hope, that doth ascend
Stairwise to expectation's height ;
A weary way it is to wend
While noonday suns are burning bright,
But rest waits at the evening's end.
Streams, that wash white from sin, flow deep.
And round about the fresh lawns twine ;
While there, beneath the green banks steep,
Beside his cross, the Lamb Divine
Lies tranquilly in peaceful sleep.
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The daisied grass is glad, and gay
With crystal butterflies the hedge,
Where globes of fruit shine blue ; here stray
Peacocks beside the box-trees' edge :
A shining lion bars the way.
Flowers, upright as the ecstasies
And ardours of white spirits pure,
With branches springing fountain-wise.
Burst upward, and by impulse sure
To their own soaring splendour rise.
Gently and very slowly swayed.
The wind a wordless rhapsody
Sings — ^and the shimm'ring air doth braid
An aureole of filigree
Round every disk with emerald laid.
Even the shade is but a flight
Toward flickering radiances, that slip
From space to space $ and now the light
Sleeps, with calmed rays, upon the lip
Of lilac-blossoms golden-white.
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SHE OF THE GARDEN
TN such a spot, with radiant flowers for halo,
;*• I saw the Guardian Angel sit her down ;
Vine-branches fashioned a green shrine above her
And sun-flowers rose behind her like a crown.
Her fingers, their white slenderness encircled
With humble, fragile rings of coral round.
Held, ranged in couples, sprats of faithful roses.
Sealed with a clasp, with threads of woollen bound.
A shimmering air the golden calm was weaving.
All filigreed with dawn, that like a braid
Surmounted her pure brow, which still was hidden
Half in the shade.
Woven of linen were her veil and sandals.
But, twined 'mid boughs of foliage, on their hem
The th;ologie Virtues Three were painted ;
Hearts set about with gold encompassed them.
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Her silken hair, slow rippling, from her shoulder
Down to the mosses of the sward did reach ;
The childhood of her eyes disclosed a silence
More sweet than speech.
My arms outstretched, and all my soul upstraining,
Then did I rise,
With haggard yearning, toward the soul suspended
There in her eyes.
Those eyes, they shone so vivid with remembrance.
That they confessed days lived alike with me :
Oh, in the grave inviolate can it change, then.
The Long Ago, and live in the To Be ?
Sare, she was one who, being dead, yet brought me,
Miraculous, a strength that comforteth,
And the Viaticum of her survival
Guiding me from the further side of Death.
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From
«LA MULTIPLE
SPLENDEUR "
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THE GLORY OF THE HEAVENS
SHINING in dim transparence, the whole of infinity
lies
Behind the veils that the finger of radiant winter
weaves ;
And down on us falls the foliage of st^s in glittering
sheaves,
From out the depths of the forest, the forest obscure of
the skies.
The winged sea with her shadowy floods as of dappled
silk
Speeds, 'neath the golden fires, her pale immensity o'er ;
And diamond-rayed, the moonlight, shining along the
shore.
Bathes the brow of the headlands in radiance as soft as
milk.
Yonder there flow, untwining and twining their loops
anew.
The mighty, silvery rivers, through the translucent night ;
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And a glint as of wondrous acids sparkles with magic
light
In the cup that the lake outstretches toward the mountains
blue.
Everywhere light seems breaking forth into flower and
star.
Whether on shore in stillness, or wavering on the deep.
The islands are nests where silence inviolate doth sleep ;
An ardent liimlms hovers o'er yon horizons far.
See, from Nadir to Zenith one aureole doth reach !
Of yore, the souls exalted by faith's high mysteries
Saw, in the domination of those star-clouded skies,
Jehovah's hand resplendent and heard His silent speech.
But now the eyes that scan them no longer may there
aspire
To see some god self-banished — not so, but the intricate
Tangle of marvellous problems, the messengers that wait
On Measureless Force, and veil her, there on her couch
of fire.
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O cauldrons of life, where matter, adown the eternal day.
Pours herself fruitful, seething through paths of scattering
flame !
O flux of worlds and reflux to other worlds the same !
Unending oscillation betwixt never and for aye !
Tumults consumed in whirlpools of speed and sound and
light-
Violence we nought may reck of! — and yet there falls
from thence
I The vast, unbroken silence, mysterious and intense,
|That makes the peace, the calmness and beauty of the
night !
O spheres of flame and golden, always more far and
high;
Abyss to abyss still floating, onward from shade to
shade 1
So far, so high, all reck'ning the wisdom of man has
made.
Before those giddy numbers must shrink in his hands
and die !
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Shining in dim transparence, the whole of infinity lies
Behind the veils that the finger of radiant winter
weaves;
And down on us falls the foliage of stars in glittering
sheaves.
From out the depths of the forest, the forest obscure of
the skies.
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1
>
LIFE
' I '•O see-bcauty in all, is to lift our own sou) '
^ Up to loftier heights than do those who aspire
Through culpable sufi;ring, vanquished desire.
Harsh Reality, dread and inelFable Whole,
Distils her red draught, enough tonic and stern
To intoxicate heads and to make the heart burn,
O clean and pure grain, whence are purged all the tares !
Clear torch, chosen out amid many whose flame,
Though ancient in splendour, is false to its name !
It is good to keep step, though beset with hard cares,
With the life that is real, to the far distant goal,
With no arm save the lucid, white pride of one's soul !
To march, thus intrepid in confidence, straight
On the obstacle, holding the stubborn hope still
Of conquering, thanks to firm blows of the will.
Of intelligence prompt, or of patience to wait ;
And to feel growing stronger within us the sense.
Day by day, of a power superb and intense 1
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To love ourselves keenly those others within
Who share a like strife with us, soar without fear
Toward that one future, whose footsteps we hear ;
To love them, heart, brain, and because we are kin ;
Because in some dark, maddened day they have known
One anguish, one mourning, one stress with our own I
To be drunk with the great human battle of wills —
— Pale, fleeting reflex of the monstrous assaults.
Golden movements of planets in heaven's high vaults —
Till one lives in all that which acts, struggles, and thrills,
And avidly opens one's heart to the law
That rules, dread and stern, the whole universe o'er !
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JOY
/^ SPLENDID, spacious days, irradiate
^^ With flaming dawns, when earth shows yet more
fair
Her ardent beauty, proud, without alloy ;
And wakening life breathes out her perfume rare
So potently, that, all intoxicate,
Our ravished being rushes upon joy !
Be thanked, mine eyes, that now
Ye still shine clear beneath my furrowed brow
To see afar, the light vibrating there ;
And you my hands, that in the sun yet thrill,
And you, my fingers, that glow golden still
Among the golden fruit upon the wall
Where hollyhocks stand tall.
Be thanked, my body, that thyself dost bear
Yet firm and swift, and quivering to the touch
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Of the quick breezes or of winds profound ;
And you, straight frame, and lungs outbreathing wide,
Along the shore or on the mountain-side,
The sharp and radiant air
That bathes and grips the mighty worlds around !
festal mornings, calm in loveliness.
Rose whose pure face the dewdrops all caress.
Birds flying toward us, like some presage white,
Gardens of sombre shade or frailest light I
What time the ample summer warms the glade,
1 love you, roads, by which came hither late
She who held hidden in her hands my fate.
I love you, distant marshes, woods austere.
And to its depths, I love the earth, where here
Beneath my feet, my dead to rest are laid.
So I exist in all that doth surround
And penetrate me : — all this grassy ground.
These hidden paths, and many a copse of beech :
Clear water, that no clouding shadows reach :
You have become to me
Myself, because you are my memory.
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\ In you my life prolonged for ever seems,
\ T ';^np^^ T nm^ ill fhi» ^"^^ ^^^**^ my lirT""*** j
\ In that horizon vast that dazzles me,
\ Trees shimmering with gold, my pride are ye ;
\ And like the knots upon your trunk, my will
Strengthens my power to sane, stanch labour stilL
Rose of the pearl-hued gardens, when you kiss
My brow, a touch of living flame it is ;
To me all seems
One thrill of ardour, beauty, wild caress ;
And I, in this world-drunkenness.
So multiply myself in all that gleams
On dazzled eyes.
That my heart, fainting, vents itself in cries.
O leaps of fervour, strong, profound, and sweet,
As though some great wing swept thee oflF thy feet !
If thou hast felt them upward bearing thee
Toward infinity.
Complain not, man, even in the evil day ;
Whate'er disaster takes thee for her prey
Thou to thyself shalt say
That once, for one short instant all supreme
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Which time may not destroy,
Thou yet hast tasted, with quick-beating heart,
Sweet, formidable joy ;
And that thy soul, beguiling thee to see
As in a dream,
Hath fused thy very being's inmost part
With the unanimous great founts of power,
And that that day supreme, that single hour.
Hath made a god of thee.
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SONGS & SONNETS
FOR ENGLAND IN
WAR TIME
BEING A COLLECTION
OF LYRICS INSPIRED
BY THE GREAT WAR
BY VARIOUS AUTHORS
WITH A COVER DESIGN BY VERNON HILL
Crown 8vo. Paper Wrappers i/- net. Cloth 2/- net.
THE PROFITS ON THE SALES OF THIS
BOOK WILL BE DEVOTED TO THE PRINCE
OF WALES'S NATIONAL RELIEF FUND
Alphabetical List of Authors and their Poems
Adcock, A. St. John : Hymn after Battle
Archer, William : Iconoclastes
Anon : A Partnership
Barnes. R. Gorell : To the British Army
Begbie. Harold : The Tribute
Binyon, Laurence : The Women
Buckley, Reginald R. : To the Aggressor
Bussy, Philip : The Vindication
C, G. : Welcome to you, Gallant Britons
Cannan, Gilbert : The Spirit of England
Chesterton, Cecil : France
Chesterton, G. K. : Alliterativism
Colvin, Ian : The Answer
Courtney, W. L. : A Battle Song
Coutts, Francis : To Britain
Forster, R. H. : To the Crew of H.M.S. Birmingham
Freeman, R. M. : The War Cry
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Gill, Anthoay Kirby : The Song of the Britons
Goadp Harold E. : Redemption
Hardy, Thomas : The Song of the Soldiers
Hewlett, Maurice : To the Belgians irom England
HutchinsoQ. W. M. L. : Roll up ^
Jones, Herbert : To France
Jourdain, M. : War
Kernahan, Coulson : To ' Little ' Belgiqm
Kipling, Rudyard : " For all we have and are "
I-etts, W. M. : The Call to Arms in Our Street
Lincoln, Bishop of : A Cap to fit the Kaiser
M., H. : To the King of the Belgians
McCarthy, Justin Huntly : Armageddon
Ghosts at Boulogne
Munro, Neil : Evening Prayer of a People
Newbolt, Henry : The Vigil
Pain, Barry : The Kaiser and God
Phillips, Stephen : The Shirker
The Kaiser in Belgium
The Hash
Phillpotts, Eden : Germania
Pickthall. Marjorie L. C. : Canada to Eqglvid
Rawnsley, H. D. : A Prayer for Peace
Rhoades, James
Seaman, Sir Owen : Pro Patria
Dies Irae
Sichel, Walter : Towards the Light
Stacpoole, H. de Vere : Britannia
Stuart, Dorothy Margaret : In the Red Dawn
Underbill, Evelyn : The Naval Reserve
Vern;de, R. E. : The Call
Watson, William : The Msn Fooswom
To the Troubler of the Worid
Tbe Battle of the Bight
SOME PRESS OPINIONS
Paix Mall Gazbttb: — "iUtofether die book, with its 50 poets, its
martial and humane spirit, its tinoely «ppearaace and its aitistic f«rmat,
makes a singularly gratifying contribution to the literature of the war."
TiMBS :—" Competent verse written in a fine spirit ...» «olame worth
possessing."
Sunday Timbs :— •" We have every reason to be proud of our poets who in
this volume are in truth ' the abstracts and brief dbironides of oie time.' "
Lady's Pictorial:— "Contains some of the meet «hrilliar 5Fene ye
written in «Im ISnglirik language . . . everyone «kould ]M)saess ic"
Gbntlkwomami— " In years to come, «his^ralume «ill be JiigMf fitiii'd."
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THE
SILK HAT SOLDIER
AND OTHER POEMS. By RICHARD
LE GALLIENNE. Crown 8vo. is net
TiMSS : — ** *Tlie Silk Hat Soldier ' is a piece with a fine ring
. . . Mr. Le Gallienae shows his old aptkude for verse-
tmaing."
Sunday Times :— ^' Maay of oar poets have lifted up their
voijoes in songs of the war, and we are glad that Mr. Richard
Le Gallienne is amongst them, and equally glad to find that
his long eojonrn in America has not impaired his English
patriotism. It is pleasant to find that Mr. Le Gallienne's
hand has not lost its old cunning."
Pall Mall Gazette :;— ** Mr. Le Oallienne should be ex-
ercising a Bseful influence in the West with hi» writings on
and around the wave of British patriotism aroused by the
war. All the poems are sincere in their strains as well as
tme in their melody. '*
Bookman: — '* They have the deeper hnman note that so
much of our poetry lacks."
Tatler : — " Charming little book of poems."
Daily Cruoniclb: — "Altiiough Mr. Le Gallienne now
makes America his home, lie remains the true Briton. He
has expressed his British feeling about the war."
Yorkshire Observer : — " Mr. Le Gallienne has given us
musical verse before, but in these six poems of war-lime the
cfaocds he touches thrill more deeply. ' '
Irish Independent :— " Mr. Le Gallienae has am. aptitude
for versifying and in this book he has set out in true ringing
rhyme his patriotic appreciation of how the call to arms is
being responded to, 'To Belgium ' reveals the poet's intensity
of feeling."
Daily Graphic : — ** Herein are included some of the best
of Mr. Le Gallienne's war poems.**
War Offscs Times ;— ** They breathe the trae spirit of
poetry."
SooxsauLS :-*" Dainty precision of touch and a winsiAg tech-
nical neatness characterize the six poems^ as they do all of
Mr. LeCaUlMMie^ finely clnsslied verses.'*
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WAR POEMS AND OTHER TRANSLA-
TIONS. By Earl Curzon of Kedleston. Crown 8vo.
3s 6d net.
VENTURES IN THOUGHT. A Volume of
Essays by Francis Coutts. Narrow Crown 8vo.
3S 6d net.
WITH THE GERMAN ARMIES IN THE
WEST. By Dr. Sven Hbdin, the famous Swedish
explorer, translated from the Swedish by H. G.
Waltbrstorff, with loo Illustrations from photographs
by the author. Demy 8vo. zos 6d net.
CARILLONS OF BELGIUM AND HOL-
LAND. Tower Music in the Low Countries by
William Gorham Rice. With 32 Illustrations. Crown
8vo. 6s net.
WHAT GERMANY WANTS. By Edmund
VON Mach. With an Introduction by J. P. Collins.
Crown Svo. 3s 6d net.
THE IRON YEAR. The Franco-German
Struggle of 1870. By Walter Blobm. Translated by
Stella Block. Crown 8vo. 6s.
LIFE IN A GARRISON TOWN. The mili-
tary novel suppressed by the German Government. By
Ex-Lieut. BiLSE. In pictorial paper cover, zs net.
RUSSIAN REALITIES. By John H. Hubback.
With 16 IlluBtrations and a Map. Crown 8vo. 5s net.
AN EiMPEROR IN THE DOCK. By Wm.
DB Veer. Author of *' Battle Royal. ' ' 6s.
LOST SHEEP. By Verb Shortt. 6s.
UNDER THE TRICOLOUR. By Pierre
Mille. Translated by B. Drillibn, with 8 Illustra-
tions in colour by Helen McKib. 38 6d net.
KITCHENER CHAPS. By A. Neil Lyons
zs net.
JOHN LANE, THE BODLEYHEAD, LONDON, W.
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RByp H l f 1 1 '9
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Infinitely
Emile Verhaeren
The hounds of despair, the hounds of the autumnal wind,
Gnaw with their howling the black echoes of evenings.
The darkness, immensely, gropes in the emptiness
For the moon, seen by the light of water.
From point to point, over there, the distant lights,
And in the sky, above, dreadful voices
Coming and going from the infinity of the marshes and planes
To the infinity of the valleys and the woods.
And roadways that stretch out like sails
And pass each other, coming unfolded in the distance, soundlessly,
While lengthening beneath the stars,
Through the shadows and the terror of the night.
Tenebrae
A moon, with vacant, chilling eye, stares
At the winter, enthroned vast and white upon the hard ground;
The night is an entire and translucent azure;
The wind, a blade of sudden presence, stabs.
Far away, on the skylines, the long pathways of frost,
Seen, in the distance, to pierce the expanses,
And stars of gold, suspended to the zenith,
Always higher, amid the ether, to rend the blue of the sky.
The villages crouched in the plains of Flanders,
Near the rivers, the heather, and the great forests,
Between two pale infinities, shiver with cold,
Huddled near old hearthsides, where they stir the ashes.
Emile Verhaeren. Translator Alma Strettell
© Copyright: Даниил Серебряный, 2005
Свидетельство о публикации №105082000456
Свидетельство о публикации №105082000456
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