It Is November in My Soul, a Poem by Emile Verhaeren

Poem by Emile Verhaeren Period 19th century

Streaks of water, long brick-colored leaves,
How they fall through my eternal plains!
And rain and rain — and the reply
Of a big bloated wind that swells and bulges
And falls, streaked with rain into more rain.

— It is November in my soul —
Leaves the color of my sorrow, how they fall!

Through my eternal plains, the rain
Drop by drop, since when, wearies itself,
— It is November in my soul —
And it is the North wind that cries out
Like a beast within my soul.

Leaves the color of dregs and sorrow,
Through my plains and my plains how they fall;
Leaves the color of my sorrows and my tears,
How they fall upon my heart!

With rags of clouds,
Upon its poor blind eye
Has sunk, in the howling hurricane,
The old blind sun.

— It is November in my soul —

A few osiers in pools of slack silt
And cormorants of ink in the fog,
And then their cry that persists, their mournful cry
Monotonous, toward the infinite!

— It is November in my soul —

A boat rots in the water,
And the water, it is of steel, like a knife,
And empty willows float, adrift,
Wretched, like toothless holes in gums.

— It is November in my soul —

It is November and the wind bellows
And it is the rain, endlessly,
And clouds in journeys
Through the bends far off in my waters
— It is November in my soul —
And it is my own beast that cries out,
Immortal, within my soul!

Emile Verhaeren

Translation generated by Poésies 123 with assistance from the deepseek-chat artificial-intelligence model.

Text published on Poésies 123: https://www.poesies123.com/en/poem-it-is-november-in-my-soul-emile-verhaeren/