English Poems by Richard Le Gallienne Part 2

How we met what need to say?

When or where, Years ago or yesterday, Here or there.

All the song is--once we met, She and I; Once, but never to forget, Till we die.

All the song is that we meet Never now-- 'Hast thou yet forgotten, sweet?'

'Love, hast thou?'

V

THE DAY OF THE TWO DAFFODILS

'The daffodils are fine this year,' I said; 'O yes, but see my crocuses,' said she.

And so we entered in and sat at talk Within a little parlour bowered about With garden-noises, filled with garden scent, As some sweet sea-sh.e.l.l rings with pearly chimes And sighs out fragrance of its mother's breast.

We sat at talk, and all the afternoon Whispered about in changing silences Of flush and sudden light and gathering shade, As though some Maestro drew out organ stops Somewhere in heaven. As two within a boat On the wide sea we sat at talk, the hours Lapping unheeded round us as the waves.

And as such two will ofttimes pause in speech, Gaze at high heaven and draw deep to their hearts The infinite azure, then meet eyes again And flash it to each other; without words First, and then with voice trembling as trumpets Tremble with fierce breath, voice cadenced too As deep as the deep sea, Aeolian voice, Voice of star-s.p.a.ces, and the pine-wood's voice In dewy mornings, Life's own awful voice: So did We talk, gazing with G.o.d's own eyes Into Life's deeps--ah, how they throbbed with stars!

And were we not ourselves like pulsing suns Who, once an aeon met within the void, So fiery close, forget how far away Each orbit sweeps, and dream a little s.p.a.ce Of fiery wedding. So our hearts made answering Lightnings all that afternoon through purple mists Of riddled speech; and when at last the sun, Our sentinel, made sign beneath the trees Of coming night, and we arose and pa.s.sed Across the threshold to the flowers again, We knew a presence walking in the grove, And a voice speaking through the evening's cool Unknown before: though Love had wrought no wrong, His rune was spoken, and another rhyme Writ in his poem by the master Life.

'Pray, pluck me some,' I said. She brought me two, For daffodils were very fine that year,-- O very fine, but daffodils no more.

VI

WHY DID SHE MARRY HIM?

Why did she marry him? Ah, say why!

How was her fancy caught?

What was the dream that he drew her by, Or was she only bought?

Gave she her gold for a girlish whim, A freak of a foolish mood?

Or was it some will, like a snake in him, Lay a charm upon her blood?

Love of his limbs, was it that, think you?

Body of bullock build, Sap in the bones, and spring in the thew, A l.u.s.ty youth unspilled?

But is it so that a maid is won, Such a maiden maid as she?

Her face like a lily all white in the sun, For such mere male as he!

Ah, why do the fields with their white and gold To Farmer Clod belong, Who though he hath reaped and stacked and sold Hath never heard their song?

Nay, seek not an answer, comfort ye, The poet heard their call, And so, dear Love, will I comfort me-- He hath thy lease, that's all.

VII

THE LAMP AND THE STAR

Yea, let me be 'thy bachelere,'

'Tis sweeter than thy lord; How should I envy him, my dear, The lamp upon his board.

Still make his little circle bright With boon of dear domestic light, While I afar, Watching his windows in the night, Wors.h.i.+p a star For which he hath no bolt or bar.

Yea, dear, Thy 'bachelere.'

VIII

ORBITS

Two stars once on their lonely way Met in the heavenly height, And they dreamed a dream they might s.h.i.+ne alway With undivided light; Melt into one with a breathless throe, And beam as one in the night.

And each forgot in the dream so strange How desolately far Swept on each path, for who shall change The orbit of a star?

Yea, all was a dream, and they still must go As lonely as they are.

IX

NEVER--EVER

My mouth to thy mouth Ah never, ah never!

My breast from thy breast Eternities sever; But my soul to thy soul For ever and ever.

X

LOVE'S POOR

Yea, love, I know, and I would have it thus, I know that not for us Is springtide Pa.s.sion with his fire and flowers, I know this love of ours Lives not, nor yet may live, By the dear food that lips and hands can give.

Not, Love, that we in some high dream despise The common lover's common Paradise; Ah, G.o.d, if Thou and I But one short hour their blessedness might try, How could we poor ones teach Those happy ones who half forget them rich: For if we thus endure, 'Tis only, love, because we are so poor.

XI

COMFORT OF DANTE

Down where the unconquered river still flows on, One strong free thing within a prison's heart, I drew me with my sacred grief apart, That it might look that s.p.a.cious joy upon: And as I mused, lo! Dante walked with me, And his face spake of the high peace of pain Till all my grief glowed in me throbbingly As in some lily's heart might glow the rain.

So like a star I listened, till mine eye Caught that lone land across the water-way Wherein my lady breathed,--now breathing is-- 'O Dante,' then I said, 'she more than I Should know thy comfort, go to _her_, I pray.'

'Nay!' answered he, 'for she hath Beatrice.'

XII

A LOST HOUR

G.o.d gave us an hour for our tears, One hour out of all the years, For all the years were another's gold, Given in a cruel troth of old.

And how did we spend his boon?

That sweet miraculous flower Born to die in an hour, Late born to die so soon.

Did we watch it with breathless breath By slow degrees unfold?

Did we taste the innermost heart of it The honey of each sweet part of it?

Suck all its hidden gold To the very dregs of its death?