Contemporary Belgian Poetry Part 7

DESIRES.

What does she dream, lost in her hair's cascade, The lonely child with flowering hands as wan As garlands pale?--Of the plains of days agone With pools of water lilies, where she strayed

On paths of chance her hands with flowers arrayed, And where alms welcomed her?--And never shone As now her eyes her jewels braided on Her gowns of gold and purple and brocade.

But she sees nothing round her. In the room Amber and aromatics melt the gloom, The dusk's hot odour through the window streams;

As heavy as an opal's changing fires, Sigh in the evening mist and die desires, While naked at her gla.s.s the maiden dreams.

ADVENTURE.

Under the diadem of rustling pearls And sapphires in their grasp of gold, In yellow hair that undulatingly unfurls Over her shoulders slow and cold, And purple cloak exulting with brocade,

The Princess of the Manor's Games and Joys.

And in the jubilant noise Rivers of lightning flame unrolled, And the rich purple torch sheds its delight, And twists its rustling tresses in the night.

The Princess of the Manor's Joys Lifts in a dawn of amethysts Her tender visage that more sadly aches Than gloamings on the lunar face of lakes, With lingering smile upon her lip she lists, And casts a call into the evening mists.

In spite of omens tragical, All they who wait upon her come To lawns where sistrum, fife, and drum To revelry and dancing call.

O King! like mourning is our merry-making!

Out of our arms thou hast thyself exiled, And by our kisses art no more beguiled!

Our hearts for thee are aching!

Thou hast fled, thou hast fled, And in the night I raise my head, And call for thee with sobs, and bosom sore!

But still our festivals shall be forsaken, The mourning from our hearts shall not be taken, My fingers nevermore Shall o'er thy golden velvet tresses glide; My heavy arms shall nevermore thy neck enlace In pa.s.sionate embrace Rich with the jewels of the bracelets of my pride!

Farandola and roundelay, And the mad songs of pride, In sudden waves over the threshold glide, And through the chambers sway.

Thou never shalt return from unknown lands, O King! The sceptre is fallen from thy hands, The la.s.situde that lulled thee in its lap Has stolen from thy proud, young years their sap, Now art thou crossing thresholds far forlorn Of mysteries and adventures luring thee Where monsters crouch beneath the twisted tree; Chimeras and the pitiless unicorn Shall belch their fire where thou thy way wouldst grope And thou shalt nevermore have my caress To soothe thee into happy heedlessness Of life, and perils of inimical hope.

O come back, ere it be too late!

At evening come unto the Joys that wait, Come to the dancing and to thy Princess, Who cradled thee with kisses and with tenderness, And sweet refrains of songs.

Come to thy crown and sceptre, and the throngs Of them that love thee, and the memory Of thine ancestors shall bring back to thee Forgetfulness of mad adventures in the kiss Of her who thy Princess and Sister is.

LUXURY.

How vain are songs! Can they be worth the hymn To your ecstatic eyes of mine that swim?

The n.o.blest song of man no bosom stirs, Weak are sonorous words, but conquerors Are ye, glances of amber and of fire, Lips you, and clinging kisses slow to tire That in my soul are scorching! You that dare Leap out of longing, kisses! And you hair Of virgin gold that glints like noonday suns!

And marble whiteness where, like lava, runs Your wild blood, snow and brazier!-- Here I lie Your slave for ever, at your feet I die In sleepful spasms that the senses cloy, And the slow languor of the tasted joy; Mad with your velvety and waxen flesh That holds my soul and body in its mesh; I love you, I am poured out at your feet, Your hands are with lascivious jasmine sweet, Your beauty blooms for me! In my embrace I feel your life blowing upon my face, And entering into me! Your blinding eyes Thrill me with raptures of that Paradise Whose rubies bleed, whose yellow topazes Sleep in the sloth of sensualities, And where the limitless horizons hide Our h.e.l.l of luxuries grated round with pride.

I love thee, though the kisses of thy teeth, Cunning to bite in their red v.u.l.v.a sheath, Have the allure of Lamias that enslave With luxury swift and cruelty suave.

Through tortures from your native Orient swim Ineffably pure o'er peaceful lakes the slim Swans of your voice white in their wildering And subtle scents of snow, and on their wing Bear me towards the hope your bright eyes beam.

Now let me lie upon your b.r.e.a.s.t.s and dream.

Say nothing! Let us sleep in our blue bower Under the tufted pleasures of the hour, By the night's tranquil torpor lulled and kissed ...

Already yon far dawn of amethyst Dyes the deep heavens, and the moon at rest Upon her soft cloud cus.h.i.+ons hath caressed With argent light the forest's idle trance, And starred the stream with eyes that gleam and glance!

And now the dawn is on our pillow--hide Your eyes--I s.h.i.+ver--they are haggard, wide!

SEA-SCAPE.

Under basaltic porticoes of calm sea-caves, Heavy with alga and the moss of fucus gold, In the occult, slow shaking of sea-waves, Among the alga in proud blooms unfold The cups of pride of silent, slender gladioles....

The mystery wherein dies the rhythm of the waves In gleams of kisses long and calm unrolls, And the red coral whereon writhes the alga cold Stretches out arms that bleed with calm flowers, and beholds Its gleams reflected in the rest of waves.

Now here you stand in gardens flowered with alga, cold In the nocturnal, distant song of waves, Queen whose calm, pensive looks are glaucous gladioles, Raising above the waves their light-filled bowls, Among the alga on the coral where the ocean rolls.

A PROPITIOUS MEETING.

Propitious dawn smiles on him wandering And fretful in the evil forest deeps; The heavy night's long, bitter rumour sleeps; The sun's clear song makes the horizon ring.

The scent of sage and thyme is as a sting Unto his jaded sense, the wind that sweeps The blue sea round the promontory steeps Freshens with hope his fate's proud blossoming.

The glory of Joy into his soul returns, And his heroic dream leaps up and burns, Even as this dawn's far-flung vermilion,

And lo! at the horizon, very calm, Pacing their steeds, and holding out their palm, The Kings he deemed dead marching in the sun.

THE HOURS.

The tiring hour that weeps, And the young hour gay with sun, Hour after hour creeps, Hours after hours run Along the river banks.

This is an hour of dawn that vapour cloaks.

Yonder a thread, so it would seem, Stretches a bridge across the stream.

Shadow follows shadow, the mist chokes The water sleepy as a moat's, A tug smokes, And drags its heavy, grating chain, And drags its train Of ghostlike boats, Walls of black Along a hidden track Towards the arches blear Where now they disappear.

Like sudden palms of gold, Three sunbeams glide To where the waters hide, And all along the river in the cold Life is again begun, With all its joys Of toil and noise Awakening in the quivering, crimson sun.

The hour is rising radiant with mirth, Beaming smiles down on the earth, O festival of light!

Here is life that smiles upon its toil, And with high forehead makes the night recoil Towards the sun in heavens bright With strength and with delight.

Life quickens on faces Mad and fervent zest.