(From the German of A. Pickler.--Died, 1893)

The old path up, the wood's ranked gloomy legions,

The lap and the rustle of the lake behind,

And, roused by these, from Death's more timely regions

The old thoughts fluttering in a lonely mind;

About my way the pine-stems thick and thicker

Huddle, the mossed stone drips abundantly,

And, thro' the screen of woven branches, flicker

The bright and heaving waves of Achensee.

Pinewood and primrose scents, the air has mixt them;

Poised butterflies, a shining sun-bathed fleet,

Sky's blue, gaunt granite jags, and buoyed betwixt them,

The cloud-fleece flushing with the day's defeat.

The spell is on me, nor can aught deliver;

Slowly my spirit fails from life and light,

And Past and Future like a pauseless river,

Slide darkly down into a darker night.

The red glow wans, the blackbird's trill and quaver

Dies in the sudden gloom, the broad world sleeps;

And, mixed with moon-fire flakes, the billows waver,

As though dead hands tossed vainly in their deeps.

I think of the high dead, and that all-daring

First bard whom Orcus' self might not withstand,

I think of his vast love, and fruitless faring,

To pluck one rose from Proserpine's hand.

The Past is an ill riddle, over-subtle,

The Thing-to-Be a rumour of a cloud,

Would know the last weft of Fate's whirring shuttle?

You shall know, when they wind you in your shroud.

Innsbruck, 18th July, 1904.

THE MONKS

A translation from EMILE VERHAEREN.
Dedicated to Father Benedict, 1905.

I do invoke you here, Monks Apostolical,

Fountains of dawn, torches of faith, wrought candlesticks;

Stars shedding day across the ages mystical;

Builders whose walls for scutcheon bear the Crucifix.

Hermits who sat on white, high mountains for a throne;

Hewn marble quick with will, and strength, and angry truth;

Preachers with arms uplift and long sleeves loosely blown

Over bowed heads, and hearts gnawn of the sateless tooth.

Windows athrob with dawn, rich with all Eastern dyes;

Vases of chastity whose fulness might not cease;

Mirrors whose depths enfold, as lakes the dreaming skies,

Hills where our dreams have breath, fair valleys brimmed with peace.

Seers whose souls, foreknowing death's enfranchisement,

Walked secretly where walks the mere flesh of no feet;

Titans whose breath was more than squadroned argument;

Kings strange to Rome set up in Rome's imperial seat.

Swords hung above the pride of kings and emperors;

Lords of a prouder crown and a more grievious loss;

Warriors whose flag was spread in more tremendous wars,

Slayers of heresy with great blows of the Cross.

Arches and aqueducts of Christian sanctity,

Pillars of silver, channels pouring from the East

Rivers of grace at which the peoples thirstily

Have drunk, and quaffed desire for the unending Feast.

Tocsins with war and wounds in your most sombre roll;

Clarions whose proud, full throats salute the captain Christ;

Towers of the sun, whose crosses wear an aureole

Litten of that far Sun Who was the Sacrificed.

MISCELLANEOUS

THE LADY OF LIFE

I sat with her, and spoke right goldenly

Of love and beauty, and because her hair

Brushed me, I plucked down Sirius like a pear,

To braid it, and had laughter for my fee;

Yea, suing her to heavier slavery.

Had all but plucked the fruitage of her lips,

When, lo! inked clouds and absolute eclipse,

Courteous, but unmistakable ennui.

Then did I mind me of the sorrow wailed

Thro' poets' books, and how the streaming torch

Of suns greater than Sirius has failed,

And as I shambled out the menial's door

I heard new feet sound in the statued porch

And salutations I had heard before.

WHEN OTHERS SEE US AS WE SEE OURSELVES!

Day, with his blotting trumpet, overthrew

My city of dream, and, with his marshalled spears,

My thought that had the unperforming years

Amended and laid the base of heaven true;

But pitying, signed me priest with chrismal dew,

And I went telling of expatriate tears,

Of Hate cast out with all his sworded peers,

And tower-tops spiring to the gods anew.

One gibed, one wept, one with his drowséd air

Chilled me to very stone, but no man hearkened;

So to my love I went--ah! once love darkened

Her eyes, and in that darkness I could hide--

Why should they couch them? In her alien stare

I knew she knew all Christs I had denied.