y, 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 drowned 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