Georges Rodenbach Poems

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Deceased Are The Patrician Mansions

Deceased are the patrician mansions,
And eternally enfolded in silence
Lost in the frozen quarters of ancient cities,
Where the pinions, caught in a motionless night,

Silence: It Is The Voice That Trails…

Silence: it is the lady that trails, wearily,
Of the lady of my Silence, with very gentle step,
Shedding the white lilies of her complexion in the mirror;
Barely convalescent, she watches everything in the distance,

The Indolent Mist Of Autumn

The indolent mist of autumn at last dispersed…
It hovers between the towers, like the incense full of dreams
That will linger in the naves after the most solemn Mass;
And it sleeps like cloth spread on the dejected, grey ramparts.

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