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.

Poems of Emile Verhaeren · 第 31 / 37 题