The choir, while it is dark and devout,
And while a recollection blurs over all things,
Still keeps in the air that blue incense perfumes
Like a scattered shiver of spacious hymns.
The gravity of the long sententious verses
Stands upright like a hammer on an anvil,
And the anthem of the day, whiter than sea foam,
Still stirs its wing on the silent wall.
One hears them quiver and vibrate in its soul;
It is at their brushing that the flame flickers
Before the tabernacle, — and that the sculpted saints
Keep, near the pillars, their ecstatic poses,
As if they still heard the great canticles
Chanted around their muted prayer.
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-cloister-sketch-iv-emile-verhaeren/
