Spiritist PoetryMemory Parisian Society of Spiritist Studies, July 20
th, 1866 – medium Mr. Vavasseur
Two children, brother and sister,Went back to the cottage togetherOne summer evening. It was night already,With slow steps, walked noiselessly,Behind them, white and vaporousLike a shadow, mysterious.The bird slept in the depths of the groves,And the breeze slipped without a voice;Everything dreamed in a sweet mystery.The sister whispered to her brother:Brother, I'm afraid; don't you hearA bell crying over there?It's the sad knell of the dead,The brother said, do not shiver,It's a soul, sister,That flees earth, claimingA prayer, to pay forIts place in the eternal dwelling.Come on, sister, pray in the church,On the powdery gray slabWhere we are seen, on a day of mourning,Both behind a long coffinWhere our poor mother rest.Let's go pray for the dead, sister;It will bring us good luck.Calm down! - And sister and brother,Under the eyelid, a tear,Holding hands, one another,Took the narrow and green pathThat led to the old church.A second time the windBrought them the sad sendoff,Of the deceased, seeking their God,And the bell ceased its complaint;And mute and trembling afraid,Our two children, shy,Walked, looking at the skies.By the door of the church, arriving,They saw a woman sittingIn the shadow of the sad postHolding the large holy water font.Bare feet, face veiled,Pale, mad and disheveled.She cried out: O my God!O you everywhere adored,Anytime, anywhere on earthAs in heaven, a poor mother,Trembling, at the feet of your altars,Before your eternal designs,Hardly dare, in your presence,Complain and tell her anguish.Lord! I only had one child,Only one; he was pink and whiteLike a white ray paintingDawn, in a cool morning.The mirror of his big blue eyesReflected the azure of your skies,And on his mouth, a sweet smileSeemed to sprout and tell:Cry no more at your home;God has just sent me.See, the storm is gone, mother;The sky is cloudless, hope!And I was hoping. But, poor child,You were wrong by cheating on me.When the wind blows on the beachIt destroys everything in its path,Leaving only a few reedsCrying on the shores of their waters.And when death knocks on the doorOf a home, she comes in and takes all!Everything! ... at its threshold, leavingOnly a black sheet to hide the mourning.I knew, however, that a beautiful dream,If it starts in the morning, it stopsOne evening here below; that night,Jealous of the shining sun,Making its sad shadow pale,Soon spreading a dark veilObscuring its thousand lights,And hiding it from all sights.Yes, I knew it, but the mother ignoresIt all; and when she hopes,The poor mother believes in everything;For a son, especially for happiness.I spent the whole life suffering,Couldn't I, without disarrayHope for a happy day?It was otherwise! Lord.May your will be done!In this humble retreat, alone,Where I saw my husband die,Where, pale and trembling, on my knees,I received the farewell of a father,Where you take away from the motherHer last hope, her child.Before his triumphant slayer,Death, that contemplates its preyWith a smile of joy,Lord! I ask the handThat hits my loved ones, tomorrowNot to spare the mother,Asking her son to the land.The bell, one last time rang,At these words, her voice heard.The soul of the child on earthCame back to console the mother,Saying: I am in heavens!Anxious sister and brother, whenThey came out of the church, dated,The woman was still seated.Jean
