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diff --git a/old/33792-8.txt b/old/33792-8.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..a37e7c8 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/33792-8.txt @@ -0,0 +1,2177 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Poems of Emile Verhaeren, by Emile Verhaeren + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Poems of Emile Verhaeren + +Author: Emile Verhaeren + +Illustrator: John S. Sargent + +Translator: Alma Strettell + +Release Date: September 21, 2010 [EBook #33792] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS OF EMILE VERHAEREN *** + + + + +Produced by Marc D'Hooghe at http://www.freeliterature.org + + + + +POEMS + +OF + +EMILE VERHAEREN. + + +SELECTED AND RENDERED INTO ENGLISH + +BY + +ALMA STRETTELL. + + +JOHN LANE +THE BODLEY HEAD +LONDON & NEW YORK + +1915. + + + +INDEX + +INTRODUCTORY NOTE + +From "LES VILLAGES ILLUSOIRES" + +RAIN +THE FERRYMAN +THE SILENCE +THE BELL-RINGER +SNOW +THE GRAVE-DIGGER +THE WIND +THE FISHERMEN +THE ROPE-MAKER + +From "LES HEURES CLAIRES" + +I. +VIII. +XVII. +XXI. + +From "LES APPARUS DANS MES CHEMINS" + +ST. GEORGE +THE GARDENS +SHE OF THE GARDEN + +From "LA MULTIPLE SPLENDEUR" + +THE GLORY OF HEAVENS +LIFE +JOY + + + + +INTRODUCTORY NOTE. + + + +Emile Verhaeren, remarkable among of the brilliant group of writers +representing "Young Belgium," and one who has been recognized by the +literary world of France as holding a foremost place among the lyric +poets of the day was born at St. Amand, near Antwerp, in 1855. His +childhood was passed on the banks of the Scheldt, in the midst of the +wide-spreading Flemish plains, 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 imagination, the gloomy force, the wonderful +descriptive power and sense of colour, which set the landscape before +one as a picture, suggest rather the possibility of Spanish blood in the +poet's veins--and again, his somewhat morbid subjectivity and tendency +to self-analysis mark him as the child of the latter end of our +nineteenth century. + +Verhaeren 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 Van Dyck, and by +his friend and present publisher, Edmond Deman. He also formed, about +this time, a close friendship with Maeterlinck. In 1881, Verhaeren was +called to the Bar at Brussels, but soon gave up his legal career to +devote himself entirely to literature. In 1883 he published his first +volume of poems, and shortly afterwards became one of the editors of +"_L'Art Moderne_," to which, 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 music, +as well as lectures upon literary and artistic subjects, were given. In +spite, however, 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, and between 1883 and 1897 brought out successively eleven +small volumes: _Les Flamandes, Les Moines, Les Soirs, Les Débâcles, Les +Flambeaux Noirs, Les Apparus dans mes chemins, Les Campagnes +Hallucinées, Les Villages Illusoires, Les Villes Tentaculaires, Les +Heures Claires,_ and _Les Aubes_. + +Throughout this entire series the intellectual and spiritual development +of the poet may be closely traced--from the materialism which pervades +_Les Flamandes_, and the despairing pessimism and lurid emotion--the +throes of a self-centred soul in revolt against fate--which are so +powerfully portrayed in _Les Débâcles_ and _Les Flambeaux Noirs_, and are +apparent even in the opening pages of _Les Apparus_ dans mes chemins--to +the tender, hopeful mysticism which marks the latter poems in that +volume, and the wonderful sympathy with Nature, even in her saddest +aspects--the subtle power of endowing those aspects with a profound and +ennobling symbolism, which characterise the most beautiful of the poems +in Les Villages Illusoires. Les Heures Claires is the name given to a +volume of love-songs, an exquisite record of golden hours spent in a +garden at spring-time--spring-time in a double sense. + +The task of making an adequate and typical selection from a poet's work +is always difficult, and in this case it has been decided to limit the +field of selection, at least for the present, to the three last-named +volumes, which embody what may, I think, be considered as Verhaeren's +highest achievement in the realm of lyrical poetry. + + +In style, Verhaeren is essentially the apostle of the "Vers libre"; and +his handling of rhyme and rhythm, his coining of words where he finds +the French vocabulary insufficient, have called down upon him some +criticism from those of his French contemporaries who are sticklers for +the older rules and more conventional forms of versification. But +however this may be, it remains an undeniable fact that Verhaeren has at +his command a rare and powerful poetic eloquence--a wealth of imagery, a +depth of thought and a subtlety of expression which perhaps are not to +be imprisoned behind the bars of a too rigid convention. English readers +have already been accustomed by their own poets to the "vers libre," and +it is not so much, therefore, 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. + + + + +POEMS + + +From "LES VILLAGES ILLUSOIRES" + + +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! + + + + +THE FERRYMAN + + +The ferryman, a green reed 'twixt his teeth, +With hand on oar, against the current strong +Had rowed and rowed so long. + + +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 + + +Since the last bolt was forged amid the storm, +The polar Silence at the corners four +Of the wide heather-land has stirred no more. + + +Old shepherds, whom their hundred years have worn +To things all dislocate and out of gear, +And their old dogs, ragged, tired-out, and torn. +Oft watch It, on the soundless lowlands near, +Or downs of gold beflecked with shadows' flight, +Sit down immensely there beside the night. + + +Then, at the curves and corners of the mere. + The waters creep with fear; +The heather veils itself, grows wan and white; +All the leaves listen upon all the bushes, +And the incendiary sunset hushes +Before Its face his cries of brandished light. +And in the hamlets that about It lie. +Beneath the thatches of their hovels small +The terror dwells of feeling It is nigh. +And, though It stirs not, dominating all. +Broken with dull despair and helplessness, +Beneath Its presence they crouch motionless, +As though upon the watch--and dread to see. +Through rifts of vapour, open suddenly +At evening, in the moon, the argent eyes + Of Its mute mysteries. + + + + +THE BELL-RINGER + + +Yon, in the depths of the evening's track, +Like a herd of blind bullocks that seek their fellows, +Wild, as in terror, the tempest bellows. +And suddenly, there, o'er the gables black +That the church, in the twilight, around it raises +All scored with lightnings the steeple blazes. + + +See the old bell-ringer, frenzied with fear. +Mouth gaping, yet speechless, draw hastening near. +And the knell of alarm that with strokes of lead +He rings, heaves forth in a tempest of dread +The frantic despair that throbs in his head. + + +With the cross at the height +Of its summit brandished, the lofty steeple +Spreads the crimson mane +Of the fire o'er the plain +Toward the dream-like horizons that bound the night; +The city nocturnal is filled with light; +The face of the swift-gathered crowds doth people +With fears and with clamours both street and lane; +On walls turned suddenly dazzling bright +The dusky panes drink the crimson flood + Like draughts of blood. + + +Yet, knell upon knell, the old ringer doth cast +His frenzy and fear o'er the country vast. + + +The steeple, it seems to be growing higher +Against the horizon that shifts and quivers, +And to be flying in gleams of fire +Far o'er the lakes and the swampy rivers. +Its slates, like wings +Of sparks and spangles, afar it flings. +They fly toward the forests across the night: +And in their passage the fires exhume +The hovels and huts from their folds of gloom, +Setting them suddenly all alight. + + +In the crashing fall of the steeple's crown +The cross to the brazier's depth drops down, +Where, twisted and torn in the fiery fray, +Its Christian arms are crushed like prey. +With might and main +The bell-ringer sounds his knell abroad. +As though the flames would burn his God. + + +The fire +Funnel-like hollows its way yet higher, +'Twixt walls of stone, up the steeple's height; +Gaining the archway and lofty stage +Where, swinging in light, the bell bounds with rage. +The daws and the owls, with wild, long cry + Pass screeching by; +On the fast-closed casements their heads they smite, +Burn in the smoke-drifts their pinions light, +Then, broken with terror and bruised with flight. +Suddenly, 'mid the surging crowd. +Fall dead outright. + + +The old man sees toward his brandished bells +The climbing fire +With hands of boiling gold stretch nigher. + + +The steeple +Looks like a thicket of crimson bushes, +With here a branch of flame that rushes +Darting the belfry boards between; +Convulsed and savage flames, they cling, +With curves that plant-like curl and lean. +Round every joist, round every pulley, +And monumental beams, whence ring +The bells, that voice forth frenzied folly. + + +His fear and anguish spent, the ringer +Sounds his own knell + On his ruined bell. + + +A final crash, +All dust and plaster in one grey flash, +Cleaves the whole steeple's height in pieces; +And like some great cry slain, it ceases +All on a sudden, the knell's dull rage. +The ancient tower +Seems sudden to lean and darkly lower; +While with heavy thuds, as from stage to stage +They headlong bound. +The bells are heard +Plunging and crashing towards the ground. + + +But yet the old ringer has never stirred. +And, scooping the moist earth out, the bell +Was thus his coffin, and grave as well. + + + + +THE SNOW + + +Uninterruptedly falls the snow, +Like meagre, long wool-strands, scant and slow, +O'er the meagre, long plain disconsolate. +Cold with lovelessness, warm with hate. + + +Infinite, infinite falls the snow. +Like a moment's time. +Monotonously, in a moment's time; +On the houses it falls and drops, the snow. +Monotonous, whitening them o'er with rime; +It falls on the sheds and their palings below. +And myriad-wise, it falls and lies + In ridgèd waves +In the churchyard hollows between the graves. + + +The apron of all inclement weather +Is roughly unfastened, there on high; +The apron of woes and misery +Is shaken by wind-gusts violently +Down on the hamlets that crouch together +Beneath the dull horizon-sky. + + +The frost creeps down to the very bones, +And want creeps in through the walls and stones; +Yea, snow and want round the souls creep close, +--The heavy snow diaphanous-- +Round the stone-cold hearths and the flameless souls +That wither away in their huts and holes. + + +The hamlets bare +White, white as Death lie yonder, where +The crookèd roadways cross and halt; +Like branching traceries of salt +The trees, all crystallized with frost, +Stretch forth their boughs, entwined and crost. +Along the ways, as on they go +In far procession o'er the snow. + + +Then here and there, some ancient mill, +Where light, pale mosses aggregate, +Appears on a sudden, standing straight +Like a snare upon its lonely hill. +The roofs and sheds, down there below. +Since November dawned, have been wrestling still, +In contrary blasts, with the hurricane; +While, thick and full, yet falls amain +The infinite snow, with its weary weight, +O'er the meagre, long plain disconsolate. + + +Thus journeys the snow afar so fleet. +Into every cranny, on every trail; +Always the snow and its winding-sheet, +The mortuary snow so pale. +The snow, unfruitful and so pale. +In wild and vagabond tatters hurled +Through the limitless winter of the world. + + + + +THE GRAVE-DIGGER + + + +In the garden yonder of yews and death, +There sojourneth +A man who toils, and has toiled for aye. +Digging the dried-up ground all day. + + +Some willows, surviving their own dead selves. +Weep there around him as he delves. +And a few poor flowers, disconsolate +Because the tempest and wind and wet +Vex them with ceaseless scourge and fret. + + +The ground is nothing but pits and cones, +Deep graves in every corner yawn; +The frost in the winter cracks the stones, +And when the summer in June is born +One hears, 'mid the silence that pants for breath, +The germinating and life of Death +Below, among the lifeless bones. + + +Since ages longer than he can know, +The grave-digger brings his human woe, +That never wears out, and lays its head +Slowly down in that earthy bed. + + +By all the surrounding roads, each day +They come towards him, the coffins white, +They come in processions infinite; +They come from the distances far away. +From corners obscure and out-of-the-way. +From the heart of the towns--and the wide-spreading + plain. +The limitless plain, swallows up their track; +They come with their escort of people in black. +At every hour, till the day doth wane; +And at early dawn the long trains forlorn + Begin again. + + +The grave-digger hears far off the knell, +Beneath weary skies, of the passing bell, +Since ages longer than he can tell. + + +Some grief of his each coffin carrieth-- +His wild desires toward evenings dark with death +Are here: his mournings for he knows not what: +Here are his tears, for ever on this spot +Motionless in their shrouds: his memories. +With gaze worn-out from travelling through the years +So far, to bid him call to mind the fears +Of which their souls are dying--and with these + Lies side by side +The shattered body of his broken pride. +His heroism, to which nought replied, + Is here all unavailing; +His courage, 'neath its heavy armour failing. +And his poor valour, gashed upon the brow. +Silent, and crumbling in corruption now. +The grave-digger watches them come into sight, + The long, slow roads. +Marching towards him, with all their loads + Of coffins white. + + +Here are his keenest thoughts, that one by one +His lukewarm soul hath tainted and undone; +And his white loves of simple days of yore, +in lewd and tempting mirrors sullied o'er; +The proud, mute vows that to himself he made +Are here--for he hath scored and cancelled them, +As one may cut and notch a diadem; +And here, inert and prone, his will is laid, +Whose gestures flashed like lightning keen before. +But that he now can raise in strength no more. + + +The grave-digger digs to the sound of the knell +'Mid the yews and the deaths in yonder dell. +Since ages longer than he can tell. + + +Here is his dream--born in the radiant glow. +Of joy and young oblivion, long ago-- +That in black fields of science he let go, +That he hath clothed with flame and embers bright, +--Red wings plucked off from Folly in her flight-- +That he hath launched toward inaccessible +Spaces afar, toward the distance there, +The golden conquest of the Impossible, +And that the limitless, refractory sky, +Sends back to him again, or it has ere +So much as touched the immobile mystery. + + +The grave-digger turneth it round and round-- +With arms by toil so weary made, +With arms so thin, and strokes of spade-- +Since what long times?--the dried-up ground. +Here, for his anguish and remorse, there throng +Pardons denied to creatures in the wrong; +And here, the tears, the prayers, the silent cries, +He would not list to in his brothers' eyes. +The insults to the gentle, and the jeer +What time the humble bent their knees, are here; +Gloomy denials, and a bitter store +Of arid sarcasms, oft poured out before +Devotedness that in the shadow stands + With outstretched hands. + + +The grave-digger, weary, yet eager as well. +Hiding his pain to the sound of the knell, +With strokes of the spade turns round and round +The weary sods of the dried-up ground. + + +Then--fear-struck dallyings with suicide; +Delays, that conquer hours that would decide: +Again--the terrors of dark crime and sin +Furtively felt with frenzied fingers thin: +The fierce craze and the fervent rage to be +The man who lives of the extremity + Of his own fear: +And then, too, doubt immense and wild affright. +And madness, with its eyes of marble white, + These all are here. + + +His head a prey to the dull knell's sound, +In terror the grave-digger turns the ground +With strokes of the spade, and doth ceaseless cast +The dried-up earth upon his past. + + +The slain days, and the present, he doth see, +Quelling each quivering thrill of life to be. +And drop by drop, through fists whose fingers start. +Pressing the future blood of his red heart; +Chewing with teeth that grind and crush, each part +Of that his future's body, limb by limb, +Till there is but a carcase left to him; +And shewing him, in coffins prisoned, +Or ever they be born, his longings dead. + + +The grave-digger yonder doth hear the knell, +More heavy yet, of the passing bell. +That up through the mourning horizons doth swell +What if the bells, with their haunting swing, +Would stop on a day that heart-breaking ring! +And the endless procession of corse after corse. +Choke the highways no more of his long remorse +But the biers, with the prayers and the tears, +Immensely yet follow the biers; +They halt by crucifix now, and by shrine, +Then take up once more their mournful line; +On the backs of men, upon trestles borne. +They follow their uniform march forlorn; +Skirting each field and each garden-wall. +Passing beneath the sign-posts tall, +Skirting along by the vast Unknown, +Where terror points horns from the corner-stone. + + +The old man, broken and propless quite. +Watches them still from the infinite +Coming towards him--and hath beside +Nothing to do, but in earth to hide +His multiple death, thus bit by bit, +And, with fingers irresolute, plant on it +Crosses so hastily, day by day, +Since what long times--he cannot say. + + + + +THE WIND + + +Crossing the infinite length of the moorland, +Here comes the wind, +The wind with his trumpet that Heralds November; +Endless and infinite, crossing the downs, +Here comes the wind +That teareth himself and doth fiercely dismember; +Which heavy breaths turbulent smiting the towns, +The savage wind comes, the fierce wind of November! + + +Each bucket of iron at the wells of the farmyards, +Each bucket and pulley, it creaks and it wails; +By cisterns of farmyards, the pulleys and pails +They creak and they cry, +The whole of sad death in their melancholy. + + +The wind, it sends scudding dead leaves from the birches +Along o'er the water, the wind of November, +The savage, fierce wind; +The boughs of the trees for the birds' nests it searches, +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 +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 o'erthrew--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! + + + + +THE FISHERMEN + + +The 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 +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, +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 bayings 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 +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 halos 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. +But seeing one another never; +Weary are both their arms--and yet +Their work their ruin 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 +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. + + + + +THE ROPE-MAKER + + +In 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. +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. +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 change--they pass and glide, + And on their way +They shew in mirrors of eventide +The mourning image of dark To-day. + + +Here--writhing fires that never rest nor end. +Where, in one giant effort 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 workship, 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 and night. + + +--A palace--of an architecture grown +Effete, and weary 'neath its hundred years. +Whence voices vast invoke, instinct with fears, +The thunder in its flights toward the Unknown. + + +On the silent, even road--his eyes +Still fixed towards 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. + + +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 steadfast 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. + + + + +From "LES HEURES CLAIRES" + + + + +I + + +Oh, 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 o'er head +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 azur 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 ourselves! +Whose life doth feed, within this garden bright, +Upon the emblems of our own delight. + + +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 ruffle 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. + + + + +VIII + + +As in the guileless, golden age, my heart +I gave thee, even like an ample flower +That opens in the dew'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. + + +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. + + + + +XVII. + + +That 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. + + + + +XXI. + + +In hours like these, when through our dream of bliss +So far 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, +Audacious hope whereon the spirit hangs, + Of being one day + Once more the prey, +Beyond even death, of these deep, silent pangs. + + + + + +From "LES APPARUS DANS MES CHEMINS" + + + + +ST. GEORGE + + +Opening the mists on a sudden through, +An Avenue! +Then, all one ferment of varied gold, +With foam of plumes where the chamfrom bends +Round his horse's head, that no bit doth hold, +St. George descends! + + +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! + + +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. +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 fair ambassador, +From white lands built with marble o'er. +Where grows, in glades beside the sea, +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! +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 +Towards a height +By oracles of blackness barred. +For Death alone is Queen of night. +And human effort is brightest born +Only at dawn. +With opening flowers would prayer fain 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; +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, towards his God. + + + + +THE GARDENS + + +The landscape now reveals a change; +A stair--that twinèd 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. + + +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. + + + + +SHE OF THE GARDEN + + +In 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, sprays of faithful roses. +Sealed with a clasp, with threads of woollen bound. + + +A shimmering air the golden calm was weaving, +All filigree'd 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 theologic Virtues Three were painted; +Hearts set about with gold encompassed them. + + +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? + + +Sure, 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. + + + + + +From "LA MULTIPLE SPLENDEUR" + + + + +THE GLORY OF THE HEAVENS + + +Shining in dim transparence, the whole of infinity lies +Behind the veil 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, + + +The wingèd 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; +And a glint as of wondrous acids sparkles with magic light +the cup that the lake outstretches towards 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 deep; +An ardent nimbus 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 we 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. + + +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 newer 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 +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! +So far, so high, all reck'ning the wisdom of man has made, +Before those giddy numbers must shrink in his hands and die! + + +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 star in glittering sheaves, +From out the depths of the forest, the forest obscure of the skies. + + + + +LIFE + + +To see beauty in all, is to lift our own Soul +Up to loftier heights than do chose who aspire +Through culpable suffering, vanquished desire. +Harsh Reality, dread and ineffable 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 +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! + + +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 string with our own! + +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! + + + + +JOY + + +O splendid, spacious day, 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 +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! + + +O 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! + + +What time the ample summer warms the glade, +I 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. + + +In you my life prolonged for ever seems, +I shape, I am, all that hath filled my dreams; +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 off thy feet! +If thou hast felt them upward hearing 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 + Which time may not destroy, +Thou yet hast tasted, with quick-beating heart, + Sweet, formidable joy; +And that thy soul, beguiling thee to set + 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. + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's Poems of Emile Verhaeren, by Emile Verhaeren + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS OF EMILE VERHAEREN *** + +***** This file should be named 33792-8.txt or 33792-8.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/3/3/7/9/33792/ + +Produced by Marc D'Hooghe at http://www.freeliterature.org + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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