For what despair, fire, shipwreck, treachery? Was it for threat that from the macchia sprang For Genoa’s feud, the oppressor’s piracy, Or the Falcon of Sarzana that it rang? Was the boat-guild’s silver plundered? Blood should pay. Hardwon the footing of the fishers’ clan The sea-cloud-watchers.--Loud above the spray The maddening iron cry, the appeal of man, Washed through the torchless midnight on and on. Are not enough the jeopardies of day? Riot arose--fear’s Self began the fray: But the tower proved empty. By the lightning’s ray They found no human ringer in the room.... The bell-rope quivered out in the sea-spume.... 3 A creature fierce, soft, witless of itself, A morbid mouth, circled by writhing arms, By its own grasp entangled on that shelf, Had dragged the rope and spread the death-alarms; Insensitive, light-forgotten, up from slime, From shelter betwixt rocks, issuing for prey Disguised, had used man’s language of dismay. The spawn of perished times had late in time Emerged, and griefs upon man’s grief imposed Incalculable. But the fishers closed The blind mouth, and cut off the suckers cold. Two thousand fathoms the disturber rolled From trough to trough into the gulf Tyrrhene; And fear sank with it back into its night obscene. HERBERT TRENCH [Illustration: _THÉO VAN RYSSELBERGHE_ PORTRAIT OF ÉMILE VERHAEREN FROM A PENCIL DRAWING] _ÉMILE VERHAEREN_ LE PRINTEMPS DE 1915 Tu me disais de ta voix douce, Tu me disais en insistant: --Y a-t-il encore un Printemps Et les feuilles repoussent-elles? La guerre accapare le ciel Les eaux, les monts, les bois, la terre: Où sont les fleurs couleur de miel Pour les abeilles volontaires? Où sont les pousses des roncerois Et les boutons des anémones? Où sont les flûtes dans les bois Des oiseaux sombres aux becs jaunes? --Hélas! plus n’est de floraison Que celle des feux dans l’espace: Bouquet de rage et de menace S’éparpillant sur l’horizon. Plus n’est, hélas! de splendeur rouge Que celle, hélas! des boulets fous Éclaboussant de larges coups Clochers, hameaux, fermes et bouges. C’est le printemps de ce temps-ci: Le vent répand de plaine en plaine, Là-bas, ces feuillaisons de haine; C’est la terreur de ce temps-ci. ÉMILE VERHAEREN _Saint-Cloud, le 31 Juillet 1915_ THE NEW SPRING [TRANSLATION] Sadly your dear voice said: “Is the old spring-time dead, And shall we never see New leaves upon the tree? “Shall the black wings of war Blot out sun, moon and star, And never a bud unfold To the bee its secret gold? “Where are the wind-flowers streaked, And the wayward bramble shoots, And the black-birds yellow-beaked With a note like woodland flutes?”