Grausam zart,
Sanft und hart,
Falsch und wahr
Immerdar.
Spenden Gabe,
Suchend Habe,
Immer gebend,
Guterstrebend.
Would you not think you were reading Faust? Goethe’s West-Östlicher Divan is merely a divine way, a proud impenitent poet’s way, of translating Firdusi, Hafiz, Saadi. He declared that in reading life-giving books of the East, he had cast off years, grown young. Somewhere in The Divan he cries: Once more I will be young! I will mingle with the herdsmen on the plains. I will travel with the caravan!
I expected a revel of delight from Verhaeren’s Helen. I did not get it. At the same time I admired its reason, logical unfolding, keeping in key; few lines of color and great passion, wisely distributed. Verhaeren is best in lyrics, occasional poems, which picture Flanders. In this, if I mistake not, he is great. Les Flamands is a masterpiece. And so is Villes Tentaculaires. What can equal those portraits of the monks! He paints with words as Flemish artists painted, The van Ostade, (Adrian and Isaac), the Brothers Maris, later, for example. Nothing too humble.