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PDF Peinture sur soie - tableaux et abat-jour Download. Le gain coupable et monstrueux 40 Six French Poets S'y resserre, comme des noeuds, Et son desir se dissemine et se prop age Partant chauffer de seuil a seuil, Dans la ville, les contigus orgueils. Les comptoirs lourds grondent comme un orage, Les luxes gros se jalousent et ragent Et les faillites en tempetes, Soudainement, a coups brutaux, Battent et chavirent les tetes Des grands bourgeois monumentaux.
L'apres-midi, a tel moment, La fievre encore augmente Et penetre le monument Et dans les murs fermente. On croit la voir se raviver aux lampes Immobiles, comme des hampes, Et se couler, de rampe en rampe, Et s'ameuter et eclater Et crepiter, sur les paliers Et les marbres des escaliers.
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Une fureur reenflammee Au mirage d'un pale espoir, Monte parfois de Tentonnoir De bruit et de fumee, Ou Ton se bat, a coups de vols, en bas. Langues seches, regards aigus, gestes inverses, Et cervelles, qu'en tourbillons les millions traversent, Echangent la, leur peur et leur terreur. La hate y simule l'audace Emile Verhaeren 41 Et les audaces se depassent ; Des doigts grattent, sur des ardoises, L'affolement de leurs angoisses ; Cyniquement, tel escompte l'eclair Qui casse tin peuple au bout du monde ; Les chimeres sont volantes au clair ; Les chances fuient ou surabondent ; Marches conclus, marches rompus Luttent et s'entrebutent en disputes ; L'air brule — et les chiffres paradoxaux, En paquets pleins, en lourds trousseaux, Sont rejetes et cahotes et ballottes Et s'effarent en ces bagarres, Jusqu'a ce que leurs sommes lasses, Masses contre masses, Se cassent.
Tels jours, quand les debacles se decident, La mort les paraphe de suicides Et les chutes s'effritent en ruines Qui s'illuminent En obseques exaltatives. Mais, le soir meme, aux heures blemes, Les volontes, dans la fievre, revivent ; L'acharnement sournois Reprend, comme autrefois. On se trahit, on se sourit et Ton se mord Et Ton travaille a d'autres morts.
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La haine ronfle, ainsi qu'une machine, Autour de ceux qu'elle assassine. On mele avec l'honneur l'escroquerie, Pour amorcer jusqu'aux patries Et ameuter vers Tor torride et infamant, L'universel affolement. Oh Tor! De l'or! Et, plus feroce encor que la rage de l'or, La foi au jeu mysterieux Et ses hasards hagards et tenebreux Et ses arbitraires vouloirs certains Qui restaurent le vieux destin ; Le jeu, axe terrible, ou tournera autour de l'aventure, Par seul plaisir d'anomalie, Par seul besoin de rut et de folie, La-bas, ou se croisent les lois d'efTroi Et les supremes desarrois, Eperdument, la passion future.
Emile Verhaeren 43 Comme un torse de pierre et de metal debout, Avec, en son mystere immonde, Le cceur battant et haletant du monde, Le monument de Tor dans les tenebres bout. The dramatic intensity of this poem equals that of Le Meunier. And this is Verhaeren' s third great gift : the dramatic. I have already spoken of his visualizing gift, of his power of reproducing sound in words ; the third side of his greatness is the sense of drama.
In spite of the decoration in La Bourse, in spite of such lines, beautiful in themselves, as La-bas! Verhaeren is not a didactic poet. He does not suggest a way out. He states, and hopes, and firmly believes ; that is all. And always remember, in thinking of Verhaeren's work in the light of his philosophy, that he is first of all an artist, a painter, and he must always take a painter's delight in pure painting.
For those people who prefer a more clear, more classic style of poetry, Verhaeren has no charm. His colours are bright and vague like flash-lights thrown on a fog. But his force is incontestable, and he hurls along upon it in a whirlwind of extraordinary poetry.
Of Verhaeren's life from now on, there is little to say. He is a poet, and a poet's life is in creating poems. On his return to Belgium, he threw himself into active life and was immediately seduced by the Socialist doctrines then just being felt in Belgium. He seconded M. Vandevelde and others in starting a democratic movement, and went so far as to be- come a member of the "Comite de la Maison du Peuple.
Of course, I mean that was what he did before the war. That Verhaeren must have married sometime before is clear, because Les Heures Claires, published in that year, is the first of a series of love poems, of which Les Heures de V Apres-midi, published in , and Les Heures du Soir, published in 1, are the other volumes.
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Verhaeren's love story has evidently been tran- quil and happy. The poems are very sweet and graceful, but it must be confessed not of extreme importance. They are all written in regular metre, which seems almost typical of their calm and un- original flow. Verhaeren does not belong to the r Entile Verhaeren 45 type of man to whom love is a divine adventure. He has regarded it as a beneficent haven in which to repair himself for new departures.
No biographer mentions who Madame Verhaeren was, or anything about her, except to pay her the tribute of under- standing and cherishing a great man. That she has been a helpmeet to him in every way these poems prove. We have reached the last stage of Verhaeren' s career. The stage of powers ripening, growing, solidifying. His part is taken ; he has learnt his peculiar medium, and formulated his ideas. His final volumes, many though they are, merely show him writing still remarkable poems along the lines he has chosen. There is no diminution of his genius, and his fecundity is extraordinary.
Four volumes of poems entitled Toute la Flandre, appeared at intervals from 1 90 1 to And there are one or two other small volumes. Remember, Verhaeren has written twenty- three volumes of poems, and to speak of them all in detail would require an entire volume. I only wish it were possible to give something from each of these books. But I must content myself with one more quotation from his last book, Les Bles Mouvants. It will show that Verhaeren has 46 Six French Poets lost nothing of his great vigour, and that the rage for justice which made him a socialist still burns in him.
Elle est a nous, elle est a nous, Depuis la porte aux longs verrous Jusqu'aux faites des cheminees.
La porta dellinferno (Le indagini del sergente McRae Vol. 3) (Italian Edition)
Emile Verhaeren 47 — Allez-vous-en, allez-vous-en, L'auberge entiere est aux passants. Allez-vous-en, allez-vous-en, Et sachez bien Que notre droit, c'est notre faim. What Verhaeren has done for poetry is this. He has made it realize the modern world. He has shown the grandeur of everyday life, and made us understand that science and art are never at variance.
He has shown that civic consciousness is not neces- sarily dry and sterile, but can be as romantic as an individual. And he has done all this without once saying it directly, by force of the greatest and most complete art. Then we were engaged with a great poet. A man of large and exuberant nature, whose work was remarkable for its originality, force, dramatic power, and fecundity.
Now we are going to con- sider a minor poet of delicate and graceful talent, whose entire poetical output is contained in three volumes. It is chamber-music, as tenuous and plaintive as that played by old eighteenth century orchestras, with their viole da gamba and haut- bois d 'amour. Albert Samain would seem to lack his century, were it not that one cannot help feeling that in no century would the shy, solitary, diffident man have been at home.
Centuries are strangely alike for those living them, they only change their values when their outlines are blurred by distance. The qualities which make a man great are the same in all ages.