Poems of Emile Verhaeren

Rain

Long 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 frayed 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, By roads interminably bent, the files Of waggons, with their awnings arched and tall. Struggling in sweat and steam, toil slowly by With outline vague as of a funeral. Into the ruts, unbroken, regular, Stretching out parallel so far That when night comes they seem to join the sky. For hours the water drips; And every tree and every dwelling weeps. Drenched as they are with it. With the long rain, tenaciously, with rain Indefinite.

The rivers, through each rotten dyke that yields. Discharge their swollen wave upon the fields. Where coils of drownèd hay Float far away; And the wild breeze Buffets the alders and the walnut-trees; Knee-deep in water great black oxen stand, Lifting their bellowings sinister on high To the distorted sky; As now the night creeps onward, all the land, Thicket and plain, Grows cumbered with her clinging shades immense. And still there is the rain, The long, long rain. Like soot, so fine and dense.

The long, long rain. Rain--and its threads identical, And its nails systematical, Weaving the garment, mesh by mesh amain, Of destitution for each house and wall, And fences that enfold The villages, neglected, grey, and old: Chaplets of rags and linen shreds that fall In frayed-out wisps from upright poles and tall. Blue pigeon-houses glued against the thatch, And windows with a patch Of dingy paper on each lowering pane, Houses with straight-set gutters, side by side Across the broad stone gambles crucified, Mills, uniform, forlorn. Each rising from its hillock like a horn, Steeples afar and chapels round about, The rain, the long, long rain, Through all the winter wears and wears them out.

Rain, with its many wrinkles, the long rain With its grey nails, and with its watery mane; The long rain of these lands of long ago, The rain, eternal in its torpid flow!

But she, alas! whose voice was hailing him Across the far waves dim. Still further o'er the far waves seemed to float, Still further backwards, 'mid the mists, remote.

The casements with their eyes. The dial-faces of the towers that rise Upon the shore, Watched, as he strove and laboured more and more. With frantic bending of the back in two, And start of savage muscles strained anew.

One oar was suddenly riven, And by the current driven, With lash of heavy breakers, out to sea.

But she, whose voice that hailed him he could hear There 'mid the mist and wind, she seemed to wring Her hands with gestures yet more maddening Toward him who drew not near.

The ferryman with his surviving oar Fell harder yet to work, and more and more He strove, till every joint did crack and start, And fevered terror shook his very heart.

The rudder broke Beneath one sharp, rude stroke; That, too, the current drove relentlessly, A dreary shred of wreckage, out to sea.

The casements by the pier, Like eyes immense and feverish open wide, The dials of the towers--those widows drear Upstanding straight from mile to mile beside The banks of rivers--obstinately gaze Upon this madman, in his headstrong craze Prolonging his mad voyage 'gainst the tide.

But she, who yonder in the mist-clouds hailed Him still so desperately, she wailed and wailed, With head outstretched in fearful, straining haste Toward the unknown of the outstretched waste.

Steady as one that had in bronze been cast, Amid the blenched, grey tempest and the blast. The ferryman his single oar yet plied. And, spite of all, still lashed and bit the tide. His old eyes, with hallucinated gaze, Saw that far distance--an illumined haze-- Whence the voice sounded, coming toward him still. Beneath the cold skies, lamentable, shrill.

The last oar broke-- And this the current hurried at one stroke, Like a frail straw, towards the distant sea.

The ferryman, with arms dropped helplessly Sank on his bench, forlorn. His loins with vain efforts broken, torn.

Drifting, his barque struck somewhere, as by chance, He turned a glance Towards the bank behind him then--and saw He had not left the shore.

The casements and the dials, one by one. Their huge eyes gazing in a foolish stare. Witnessed the ruin of his ardour there; But still the old, tenacious ferryman Firm in his teeth--for God knows when, indeed-- Held the green reed.

The Silence

Ever since ending of the summer weather. When last the thunder and the lightning broke, Shatt'ring themselves upon it at one stroke, The Silence has not stirred, there in the heather.

All round about stand steeples straight as stakes, And each its bell between its fingers shakes; All round about, with their three-storied loads, The teams prowl down the roads; All round about, where'er the pine woods end, The wheel creaks on along its rutty bed, But not a sound is strong enough to rend That space intense and dead.

Since summer, thunder-laden, last was heard. The Silence has not stirred; And the broad heath-land, where the nights sink down Beyond the sand-hills brown. Beyond the endless thickets closely set, To the far borders of the far-away. Prolongs It yet.

Even the winds disturb not as they go

The boughs of those long larches, bending low Where the marsh-water lies, In which Its vacant eyes Gaze at themselves unceasing, stubbornly. Only sometimes, as on their way they move, The noiseless shadows of the clouds above. Or of some great bird's hov'ring flight on high, Brush It in passing by.

Since the last bolt that scored the earth aslant, Nothing has pierced the Silence dominant.

Of those who cross Its vast immensity, Whether at twilight or at dawn it be, There is not one but feels The dread of the Unknown that It instils; An ample force supreme, It holds Its sway Uninterruptedly the same for aye. Dark walls of blackest fir-trees bar from sight The outlook towards the paths of hope and light; Huge, pensive junipers Affright from far the passing travellers; Long, narrow paths stretch their straight lines unbent. Till they fork off in curves malevolent; And the sun, ever shifting, ceaseless lends Fresh aspects to the mirage whither tends Bewilderment