The Monks

A translation from EMILE VERHAEREN. Dedicated to Father Benedict, 1905.

I do invoke you here, Monks Apostolical, Fountains of dawn, torches of faith, wrought candlesticks; Stars shedding day across the ages mystical; Builders whose walls for scutcheon bear the Crucifix.

Hermits who sat on white, high mountains for a throne; Hewn marble quick with will, and strength, and angry truth; Preachers with arms uplift and long sleeves loosely blown Over bowed heads, and hearts gnawn of the sateless tooth.

Windows athrob with dawn, rich with all Eastern dyes; Vases of chastity whose fulness might not cease; Mirrors whose depths enfold, as lakes the dreaming skies, Hills where our dreams have breath, fair valleys brimmed with peace.

Seers whose souls, foreknowing death's enfranchisement, Walked secretly where walks the mere flesh of no feet; Titans whose breath was more than squadroned argument; Kings strange to Rome set up in Rome's imperial seat.

Swords hung above the pride of kings and emperors; Lords of a prouder crown and a more grievious loss; Warriors whose flag was spread in more tremendous wars, Slayers of heresy with great blows of the Cross.

Arches and aqueducts of Christian sanctity, Pillars of silver, channels pouring from the East Rivers of grace at which the peoples thirstily Have drunk, and quaffed desire for the unending Feast.

Tocsins with war and wounds in your most sombre roll; Clarions whose proud, full throats salute the captain Christ; Towers of the sun, whose crosses wear an aureole Litten of that far Sun Who was the Sacrificed.