Contemporary Belgian Poetry Part 3

Dream, this is the hour of snow.

JEAN DOMINIQUE.

1873--.

THOU WHOM THE SUMMER CROSSES, AS A FAWN.

Thou whom the summer crosses, as a fawn, Red in the sun, through forest alleys springs, My soul with the deep shadows round thee drawn, Hast thou not seen the sad, blonde swarm of bees Pa.s.s hanging on the eddies of the breeze, Bearing on millions of exiguous wings A little motionless and gilded queen?...

Hast thou not felt the orphan grace that starts To life with life in any beast, and glows, Tormented with enchantment, in the hearts Of delicate fawns and simple eyes of does?...

My sylvan soul, so full of nests and warm, Remembering thy flown birds with pangs how keen, Shalt thou not ever, in parched summer's breath, Hang like a humming heart and keep the swarm Of gilded bees bearing their golden queen Upon thine orphan heart more sad than death?...

And shalt thou ever of ecstatic nights, And of the royal Summer crossing earth, Know but the printed foot in amorous flights Of the red fawn, and shadow-dappled mirth?...

Soul whom the Winter too shall cross ere long, And, after, Pa.s.sion's Spring as bindweeds strong, More sad than death shall thou not ever seize This little orphan, golden queen, in state Borne round the world upon the eddying breeze By many a thousand longings that vibrate?...

THE LEGEND OF SAINT URSULA.

_Painted by Carpaccio._

The slender Ursula has decked her hair, And her pale visage, and her trailing gown With odorous collars and with s.h.i.+ning pearls; Her tapering hand the precious burden holds Of a sheaf of delicately broken folds; Her fragile temple bears the seal of G.o.d.

There comes to meet her, o'er the port's green wave, A gallant pagan prince clad with gold hair, And grace and love, and loveliness suave.

The maiden and the youth have mouths so grave, That in the sleeping air on the lagoon Already seem the harps of death to swoon....

Ursula, virgin, humble as blonde thatch, Is earnest, and in costly raiment straight, And like a kingdom taketh her the prince....

But she already knows love there is none!

But she already knows another youth, The fairest archer of a lordly race, Awaits her at another ocean's rim To free her sovran soul to fly to G.o.d....

And yet she cometh, with her exquisite neck Beaten by tresses garlanded with pearls, And the golden youth who loves her with sad cheer Hearkens approaching nigh his trembling heart, Following her silent step, a host of wings!...

THE SOUL'S PROMISE.

If you can see my soul within my eyes, I will be softer than a bed of down For your fatigue to sigh in and to swoon; I will be kinder to you and more sweet Than after vain adieux returning soon, And tenderer than a sky bedimmed with doves!

Ah! if you feel my heart rise in my eyes, Like the sick perfume of the autumn rose, If you will enter on my spirit's waste, Upon whose stones no foot but yours shall sound, If you will love my visions and my vows, I will be more your kin than all your own!

Upon my soul's wild thyme and moss, and on Its bare stones where the sun is wont to dance, And in its wind with fire and solace laden, In the whole desert of my crimson love, I will immerse you in my honeycombs.

Ah! can you gaze into my blinding soul, And know my heart has leapt into my eyes, As the sling sends after the singing bird A stone at the mysterious welkin thrown?...

If you will scan the desert of mine eyes, O you will see what suffering immense, And what vast joy and silence how divine, When, from my soul's height I shall bear you at, We shall feel rise in us the wondrous wave Of scents of roses and the falling night!...

A SECRET.

I will put my two hands on my mouth, to hush The words that, when I see you, to it rush.

I will put my two hands on mine eyes, lest you Should in them find what I were fain you knew.

I will put them on my bosom, to conceal That which might seem the desperate heart's appeal.

And I will put them gently into yours, My two hands sick with grief that long endures....

And they shall come full of their tenderness, Most silently, and even with no caress,

With the whole burden of a secret broken, Of which my mouth, eyes, heart had gladly spoken.

Tired of being empty they to you shall come, Heavy with sadness, sad with being dumb;

So desolate, discouraged, pale and frail, That you may bend, perhaps, and see they ail!...

MAX ELSKAMP.

1862--.

OF EVENING.

All at the heart of a far domain, With those to whom our hearts do strain, My Truelove weeps for me, distraught By my death the week has wrought.

My heart's Beloved grieveth sore, And plunges her two hands like flowers Into her eyes whose sorrow showers, My heart's Beloved grieveth sore.

All at the heart of a far domain, Unto her feet her skates she ties, Feeling that in her heart is ice, Far unto me her tired feet strain; My Truelove hangs to the Chapel pane, That gazes over all the plain, With rings, and salt, and dry bread, my Wretched soul that will not die.

All at the heart of a far domain, My Truelove never will weep again The festivals the seasons bring, With family rings on fingers twain; My Love has seen me promising, Like a saint, to spirits pure A Sunday that shall aye endure, And all at the heart of a far domain.

FULL OF GRACE.