Fear, Poem by Emile Verhaeren

Poem by Emile Verhaeren Period 19th century

Across the plains of my fear, turned to the North,
Here comes the old shepherd of Novembers blowing his horn,
Standing, like a misfortune, at the threshold of the dreary fold,
Blowing afar the call of the flocks of death.

The stable is there, heavy and old like a remorse,
At the depths of my lands of boundless sadness,
Which a little stream, bordered with mint and wayfaring tree,
Weary of its heavy waters, withers, with a winding course.

Black ewes, with red crosses on their shoulders,
And rams the color of fire, come back in, driven by the goad,
Like its slow sins, into my soul of dread;

The old shepherd of Novembers blows up a tempest.
Tell me, what flight of lightning has just brushed my head
That, this evening, my life should have been so afraid of me?

Emile Verhaeren

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