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Her Portrait Immortal
Must I believe this beauty wholly gone
That in her picture here so deathless seems,
And must I henceforth speak of her as one
Tells of some face of legend or of dreams,
Still here and there remembered–scarce believed,
Or held the fancy of a heart bereaved.
So beautiful she–was; ah! “was,” say I,
Yet doubt her dead–I did not see her die.
Only by others borne across the sea
Came the incredible wild blasphemy
They called her death–as though it could be true
Of such an immortality as you!
True of these eyes that from her picture gaze,
Serene, star-steadfast, as the heaven’s own eyes;
Of that deep bosom, white as hawthorn sprays,
Where my world-weary head forever lies;
True of these quiet hands, so marble-cool,
Still on her lap as lilies on a pool.
Must I believe her dead–that this sweet clay,
That even from her picture breathes perfume,
Was carried on a fiery wind away,
Or foully locked in the worm-whispering tomb;
This casket rifled, ribald fingers thrust
‘Mid all her dainty treasure–is _this_ dust!
Once such a dewy marvel of a girl,
Warm as the sun, and ivory as the moon;
All gone of her, all lost–except this curl
Saved from her head one summer afternoon,
Tied with a little ribbon from her breast–
This only mine, and Death’s now all the rest.
Must I believe it true! Bid me not go
Where on her grave the English violets blow;
Nay, leave me–if a dream, indeed, it be–
Still in my dream that she is somewhere she,
Silent, as was her wont. It is a lie–
She is not dead–I did not see her die.
Richard Le Gallienne
(1866 – 1947)
Her Portrait Immortal
From: The lonely Dancer and other Poems, 1913
• fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive G-H, Archive G-H, Gallienne, Richard Le
Summer Songs
I
How thick the grass,
How green the shade–
All for love
And lovers made.
Wood-lilies white
As hidden lace–
Open your bodice,
That’s their place.
See how the sun-god
Overpowers
The summer lying
Deep in flowers;
With burning kisses
Of bright gold
Fills her young womb
With joy untold;
And all the world
Is lad and lass,
A blue sky
And a couch of grass.
Summer is here–
let us drain
It all! it may
Not come again.
II
How the leaves thicken
On the boughs,
And the birds make
Their lyric vows.
O the beating, breaking
Heart of things,
The pulse and passion–
How it sings.
How it burns and flames
And showers,
Lusts and laughs, flowers
And deflowers.
III
Summer came,
Rose on rose;
Leaf on leaf,
Summer goes.
Summer came,
Song on song;
O summer had
A golden tongue.
Summer goes,
Sigh on sigh;
Not a rose
Sees him die.
Richard Le Gallienne
(1866 – 1947)
Summer Songs
From: The lonely Dancer and other Poems, 1913
•fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: 4SEASONS#Summer, Archive G-H, Archive G-H, Gallienne, Richard Le
“Face in the Tomb
that Lies so Still”
Face in the tomb, that lies so still,
May I draw near,
And watch your sleep and love you,
Without word or tear.
You smile, your eyelids flicker;
Shall I tell
How the world goes that lost you?
Shall I tell?
Ah! love, lift not your eyelids;
‘Tis the same
Old story that we laughed at,–
Still the same.
We knew it, you and I,
We knew it all:
Still is the small the great,
The great the small;
Still the cold lie quenches
The flaming truth,
And still embattled age
Wars against youth.
Yet I believe still in the ever-living God
That fills your grave with perfume,
Writing your name in violets across the sod,
Shielding your holy face from hail and snow;
And, though the withered stay, the lovely go,
No transitory wrong or wrath of things
Shatters the faith–that each slow minute brings
That meadow nearer to us where your feet
Shall flicker near me like white butterflies–
That meadow where immortal lovers meet,
Gazing for ever in immortal eyes.
Richard Le Gallienne
(1866 – 1947)
“Face in the Tomb that Lies so Still”
From: The lonely Dancer and other Poems, 1913
• fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive G-H, Archive G-H, Galerie des Morts, Gallienne, Richard Le
“I said–I care not”
I said–I care not if I can
But look into her eyes again,
But lay my hand within her hand
Just once again.
Though all the world be filled with snow
And fire and cataclysmal storm,
I’ll cross it just to lay my head
Upon her bosom warm.
Ah! bosom made of April flowers,
Might I but bring this aching brain,
This foolish head, and lay it down
On April once again!
Richard Le Gallienne
(1866 – 1947)
“I said–I care not”
From: The lonely Dancer and other Poems, 1913
• fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive G-H, Archive G-H, Gallienne, Richard Le
The Lonely Dancer
I had no heart to join the dance,
I danced it all so long ago–
Ah! light-winged music out of France,
Let other feet glide to and fro,
Weaving new patterns of romance
For bosoms of new-fallen snow.
But leave me thus where I may hear
The leafy rustle of the waltz,
The shell-like murmur in my ear,
The silken whisper fairy-false
Of unseen rainbows circling near,
And the glad shuddering of the walls.
Another dance the dancers spin,
A shadow-dance of mystic pain,
And other partners enter in
And dance within my lonely brain–
The swaying woodland shod in green,
The ghostly dancers of the rain;
The lonely dancers of the sea,
Foam-footed on the sandy bar,
The wizard dance of wind and tree,
The eddying dance of stream and star;
Yea, all these dancers tread for me
A measure mournful and bizarre:
An echo-dance where ear is eye,
And sound evokes the shapes of things,
Where out of silence and a sigh
The sad world like a picture springs,
As, when some secret bird sweeps by,
We see it in the sound of wings.
Those human feet upon the floor,
That eager pulse of rhythmic breath,–
How sadly to an unknown shore
Each silver footfall hurryeth;
A dance of autumn leaves, no more,
On the fantastic wind of death.
Fire clasped to elemental fire,
‘Tis thus the solar atom whirls;
The butterfly in aery gyre,
On autumn mornings, swarms and swirls,
In dance of delicate desire,
No other than these boys and girls.
The same strange music everywhere,
The woven paces just the same,
Dancing from out the viewless air
Into the void from whence they came;
Ah! but they make a gallant flare
Against the dark, each little flame!
And what if all the meaning lies
Just in the music, not in those
Who dance thus with transfigured eyes,
Holding in vain each other close;
Only the music never dies,
The dance goes on,–the dancer goes.
A woman dancing, or a world
Poised on one crystal foot afar,
In shining gulfs of silence whirled,
Like notes of the strange music are;
Small shape against another curled,
Or dancing dust that makes a star.
To him who plays the violin
All one it is who joins the reel,
Drops from the dance, or enters in;
So that the never-ending wheel
Cease not its mystic course to spin,
For weal or woe, for woe or weal.
Richard Le Gallienne
(1866 – 1947)
The Lonely Dancer
From: The lonely Dancer and other Poems, 1913
• fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive G-H, Archive G-H, Gallienne, Richard Le
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