|C.D. Warner, et al., comp. The Library of the Worlds Best Literature.|
An Anthology in Thirty Volumes. 1917.
|By Emile Verhaeren (18551916)|
From Six French Poets: Translation of Amy Lowell
|THE WINDMILL turns in the depths of the evening, very slowly it turns, against a sad and melancholy sky. It turns, and turns, and its wine-colored sail is infinitely sad, and feeble, and heavy, and tired.|| 1|
| Since dawn its armspleading, reproachfulhave stretched out and fallen; and now again they fall, far off in the darkening air and absolute silence of extinguished nature.|| 2|
| Sick with winter, the day drowses to sleep upon the villages; the clouds are weary of their gloomy travels; and along the copses where shadows are gathering, the wheel-tracks fade away to a dead horizon. Some cabins of beech logs squat miserably in a circle about a colorless pond; a copper lamp hangs from the ceiling and throws a patina of fire over wall and window. And in the immense plain, by the side of the sleeping streamwretched, miserable hovels!they fix, with the poor eyes of their ragged window-panes, the old windmill which turns, andwearyturns and dies.|| 3|