Autumn Hour, Poem by Emile Verhaeren

Poem by Emile Verhaeren Period 19th century

It is indeed my mourning, yours, O last autumn!
Rattles that the fir grove rolls in the north wind,
Golden leaf-fall to the ground and leaf-fall of blood,
On the mosses of the forest edge or the pools of the pond,
Weeping of trees, my tears, my poor tears of blood.

It is indeed my mourning, yours, O last autumn!
Shudders of anger and rages of mane,
Bushes beaten, bitten, slashed, bushes burst open,
On both edges of the long roads, on the paving stones,
Arms of bushes, my arms, my poor arms raised.

Is it indeed my mourning, yours, O last autumn?
Something, over there, crushed in a rut,
That grinds immensely its ardent despairs
And that complains, like twisted trees,
Cries from afar, my cries, my poor lost cries.

Emile Verhaeren

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