Her Eyes Are Bluebells Now

Her eyes are bluebells now, her voice a bird,
And the long sighing grass her elegy;
She who a woman was is now a star
In the high heaven shining down on me.

poem by Richard Le Gallienne
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Comfort At Parting

O little Heart,
So much I see
Thy hidden smart,
So much I long
To sing some song
To comfort thee.

For, little Heart,
Indeed, indeed,
The hour to part
Makes cruel speed;
Yet, dear, think thou
How even now,
With happy haste,
With eager feet,
The hour when we
Again shall meet
Cometh across the waste.

poem by Richard Le Gallienne
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The End Of Laughter

O never laugh again!
Laughter is dead,
Deep hiding in her grave,
A sacred thing.
O never laugh again,
Never take hands and run
Through the wild streets,
Or sing,
Glad in the sun:
For she, the immortal sweetness of all sweets,
Took laughter with her
When she went away
With sleep.

O never laugh again!
Ours but to weep,
Ours but to pray.

poem by Richard Le Gallienne
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To Ralph Waldo Emerson

Poet, whose words are like the tight-packed seed
Sealed in the capsule of a silver flower,
Still at your art we wonder as we read,
The art dynamic charging each word with power.

Seeds of the silver flower of Emerson:
One, on the winds to Scotland brought, did sink
In Carlyle's heart; and one was lately blown
To Belgium, and flowered in-Maeterlinck.

poem by Richard Le Gallienne
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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!

poem by Richard Le Gallienne
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When The Long Day Has Faded

When the long day has faded to its end,
The flowers gone, and all the singing done,
And there is no companion left save Death-
Ah! there is one,
Though in her grave she lies this many a year,
Will send a violet made of her blue eyes,
A flowering whisper of her April breath,
Up through the sleeping grass to comfort me,
And in the April rain her tears shall fall.

poem by Richard Le Gallienne
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How Fast The Year Is Going By

How fast the year is going by!
Love, it will be September soon;
O let us make the best of June.
Already, love, it is July;
The rose and honeysuckle go,
And all too soon will come the snow.

Dark berries take the place of flowers,
Of summer August still remains,
Then sad September with her rains.
O love, how short a year is ours-
So swiftly does the summer fly,
Scarce time is left to say goodbye.

poem by Richard Le Gallienne
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April Is In The World Again

April is in the world again,
And all the world is filled with flowers-
Flowers for others, not for me!
For my one flower I cannot see,
Lost in the April showers.

I cannot wake her, though I sing,
And all the birds, for her dear sake,
Fill with their songs the wintry brake;
Ah! could they make her rise again,
What resurrection would be mine!
Is she too tired to help the sun
And all the little stars to shine?

poem by Richard Le Gallienne
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Soldier Going To The War

Soldier going to the war--
Will you take my heart with you,
So that I may share a little
In the famous things you do?

Soldier going to the war--
If in battle you must fall,
Will you, among all the faces,
See my face the last of all?

Soldier coming from the war--
Who shall bind your sunburnt brow
With the laurel of the hero,
Soldier, soldier--vow for vow!

Soldier coming from the war--
When the street is one wide sea,
Flags and streaming eyes and glory--
Soldier, will you look for me?

poem by Richard Le Gallienne
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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 spacious 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.'

poem by Richard Le Gallienne
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