Emile Verhalen (1855-1919) was a famous symbolist poet with international influence in Belgium, known as the "poet of power" and "the poet of modern life", and also a people's poet with strong patriotic passion. Born in the town of Saint-Amand, near Antwerp, he loved poetry from an early age, began writing poetry in secondary school, studied law at the University of Leuven, and entered a law firm after graduation. In 1883, she published her first collection of poems, The Flemish Woman, which celebrated the feminine and natural beauty of her hometown.
Poor people
It's such a pitiful heart-
With tears of the lake, they are as white as ever.
Stone chips from the cemetery.
It's such a pathetic back-
than those between the beaches.
The roof of the brown burrow.
Heavier pain and load.
It's such a poor hand-
Like fallen leaves on the road.
Such as in front of the door. Yellow fallen leaves.
It's such a pitiful eye-
Kind and docile.
And than under the storm.
The eyes of domestic animals are even more sorrowful.
It's such poor people-
With a gesture of leniency and frustration.
On the edge of the field of the earth.
Excited and sad.
Translated by Ai Qing. Snow
The snow kept falling, like a dull, thin and pitiful yarn, falling on the gloomy, thin and pitiful plains, with the indifference of love, the heat of hatred.
The snow falls, infinitely.
It's like a moment
Monotonously—and then for a moment;
The snow fell, the snow fell, monotonously on the premises, on the partitions of the barn and the barn;
The snow is falling, falling, countless snowfalls, falling on the cemetery, falling in the empty space between the tombs.
The curtain of the climatic season is rudely lifted in the air;
The curtain of calamity swayed in the swift wind, and beneath it, small villages crouched.
The bitter cold soaks deep into the bone marrow, and poverty enters every household, and the snow and poverty enter the depths of the heart;
Heavy translucent snow penetrates into the depths of the cold hearth and the flameless heart, and the hearts of the people wither in the huts.
At the intersection of winding roads, there is a dead white village;
Tall trees, cast into crystals by the bitter cold, line long ceremonial guards along the snow, crisscrossing branches, like the tracery of crystal sculptures.
There were some old mills, condensed with pale moss, like a net, that suddenly stood up on a small hill;
Below there, the roofs and eaves, which have been in place since November, have been battling the cold winds in the fierce winds
And the endless heavy snow.
Falling, shrouded in a gloomy, lanky, pitiful field.
Drifting snow falls down every trail, every crevice, after a long trek;
Always the snow and the shroud of the snow, the pale snow with the pain of funeral, the pale barren snow, ragged, in the wild wanderings.
Survive the endless winter of this world.
Translated by Luo Luo. 
Windmills
The windmill turns very slowly in the depths of the twilight, and in a long sky of sorrow and melancholy, it turns and turns, and the rosacea-colored wings are infinitely sad, heavy, and tired.
From dawn its arms, like the arms of mourning, stretched out and drooped down, and now you see.
They're down again, over there, in dark space.
And extinguished in the silence of the natural bottom.
The bitter winter sun sleeps in the village, and the floating clouds are tired of their gloomy travels;
Along the thorns of their shadows, ruts lead to a dead sky.
Underneath the earthen cliffs, several birch huts.
Very pitiful to sit there in a huddle;
A copper lamp hangs under the ceiling, rendering the walls and windows with firelight.
And in the vast and hazy emptiness, these miserable broken stars!They are determined.
With their poor eyes with broken windows)
The old windmill turned and turned tiredly, and it was lonely.
1887 year.
Translated by Dai Wangshu.
Visitors
Open it, people, open it, I knock on the front door and the back shed, open it, people, I am the wind.
The wind dressed in dead leaves.
Come in, sir, come in, wind, look, the stove for you, and its whitewashed convex walls:
Come to our house, Mr. Wind.
Open up, people, I am a raindrop, I am a widow in a gray robe, my fate is uncertain, in the thick fog of coal gray.
Come in, widow, come into our house, come in, cold raindrops and leaden blue raindrops, gaps in the wide walls, open to our house for you to dwell.
Lift it up, people, lift up the iron rod, open it, people, I'm snow, my white coat is disgusted, on the road of old winter.
Come in, O snow, come in, madam, take the petals of your lilies, and scatter them in the chamber until they reach the burning stove.
Because we are restless people, we are people who live in the barren lands of the Northland, and we love you—say, since when?——
For us we have the pain that you have provoked.
Translated by Ai Qing. Religious
Raise the holy grail of purity on a winter night and bless the heavens.
I also lift up my heart, my dark heart, Lord, my heart!My heart!Towards your boundless emptiness, but I know that you are tight-lipped about everything, I know that everything is empty, and this heart is dying, and there is nothing;
I know you are a lie and I murmur prayers to you, and I get on my knees;I know you put your hands together, you close your eyes and ignore disappointment and scream, I know that I, and only me, are delusional;
Forgive me, Lord, forgive me for being mad.
For your silence, I will cry for my misfortune ......
Raise the holy grail of purity on a winter night and bless the heavens.
Year 1888.
Translated by Yang Songhe.