Ballade Of The Dead Face That Never Dies

The peril of fair faces all his days
No man shall 'scape: be it for joy or woe,
Each is the thrall of some predestined face
Divinely doomed to work his overthrow,
Transiently fair, as flowers in gardens blow,
Then fade, and charm no more our listless eyes;
But some fair faces ever fairer grow -
Beware of the dead face that never dies.

No snare young beauty for thy manhood lays,
No honeyed kiss the girls of Paphos know,
Shall hold thee as the silent smiling ways
Of her that went - yet only seemed to go -
With April blossoms and with last year's snow;
Each year she comes again in subtler guise,
And beckons us to her green bed below -
Beware of the dead face that never dies.

The living fade before her lunar gaze,
Her phantom youth their ruddy veins out-glow,
She lays cold fingers on the lips that praise
Aught save her lovely face of long ago;
Oblivious poppies all in vain we sow
Before the opening gates of Paradise;
There shalt thou find her pacing to and fro -
Beware of the dead face that never dies.


ENVOI

Prince, take thy fill of love, for even so
Sad men grow happy and no other wise;
But love the quick - and as thy mortal foe
Beware of the dead face that never dies.

Richard Le Gallienne

Richard Le Gallienne was an English author and poet born on January 20, 1866. Known for his lyrical poetry, he was a key figure in the literary circles of the fin de siècle. He contributed to the literary magazine 'The Yellow Book' and was involved with the Rhymers' Club, an influential group of London-based poets. His works often explored themes of beauty, love, and nature. His influence extended to both sides of the Atlantic, and he spent the latter part of his life in the United States, where he continued to write until his death on September 15, 1947.

Richard Le Gallienne

Shadow

Richard Le Gallienne, Simple Poetry

Ballade Of Love's Cloister

Richard Le Gallienne, Simple Poetry

The Friend

Richard Le Gallienne, Simple Poetry

The Destined Maid: A Prayer

Richard Le Gallienne, Simple Poetry

English

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High on his Patmos of the Southern Seas
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Strange leaves and wings their tropic splendours wave,
While, far beneath, mile after shimmering mile,
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Ballade Of The Oldest Duel In The World

A battered swordsman, slashed and scarred,
I scarce had thought to fight again,
But love of the old game dies hard,
So to't, my lady, if you're fain!
I'm scarce the mettle to refrain,
I'll ask no quarter from your art -
But what if we should both be slain!
I fight you, darling, for your heart.

I warn you, though, be on your guard,
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If we should die of love, we twain!
You laugh - en garde then - so we start;
Cyrano-like, here's my refrain:
I fight you, darling, for your heart.

If compliments I interlard
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Primum Mobile

When thou art gone, then all the rest will go;
Mornings no more shall dawn,
Roses no more shall blow,
Thy lovely face withdrawn -
Nor woods grow green again after the snow;
For of all these thy beauty was the dream,
The soul, the sap, the song;
To thee the bloom and beam
Of flower and star belong,
And all the beauty thine of bird and stream.

Thy bosom was the moonrise, and the morn
The roses of thy cheek,
No lovely thing was born
But of thy face did speak -
How shall all these endure, of thee forlorn?
The sad heart of the world grew glad through thee,
Happy, men toiled and spun
That had thy smile for fee;
So flowers seek the sun,
So singing rivers hasten to the sea.

Yet, though the world, bereft, should bleakly bloom,
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A Ballad of Death

Kneel down, fair Love, and fill thyself with tears,
Girdle thyself with sighing for a girth
Upon the sides of mirth,
Cover thy lips and eyelids, let thine ears
Be filled with rumour of people sorrowing;
Make thee soft raiment out of woven sighs
Upon the flesh to cleave,
Set pains therein and many a grievous thing,
And many sorrows after each his wise
For armlet and for gorget and for sleeve.

O Loves lute heard about the lands of death,
Left hanged upon the trees that were therein;
O Love and Time and Sin,
Three singing mouths that mourn now underbreath,
Three lovers, each one evil spoken of;
O smitten lips wherethrough this voice of mine
Came softer with her praise;
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Through the noiseless doors of Death
Three passed out, as with one breath.

Two had faces stern as Fate,
Stamped with unrelenting hate.

One upon her lips of guile
Wore a cold, mysterious smile.

Each of each unseen, the pale
Shades went down the hollow vale

Till they came unto the deep
River of Eternal Sleep.

Breath of wind, or wing of bird,
Never that dark stream hath stirred;

Still it seems as is the shore,
But it flows for evermore

Softly, through the meadows wan
To the Sea Oblivion.

In the dusk, like drops of blood,
Poppies hang above the flood;

On its surface lies a thin,
Ghostly web of mist, wherein

All things vague and changing seem
As the faces in a dream.

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Spring In The Paris Catacombs

I saw strange bones to-day in Paris town,
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The roar of glad and busy things went by -
Over our heads -
So many heads -
Deep down, deep down -
Those strange old bones deep down in Paris town:
Heads where no longer dwell -
Yet who shall tell! -
Such thoughts as those
That make a rose
Of a maid's cheek,

Filling it with such bloom -
All fearless of the unsuspected doom -
As flood wild April with such hushing breath
That Death himself believes no more in Death.

Yea! I went down
Out of the chestnuts and the girl-filled town,
Only a yard or two beneath the street,
Haunted a little while by little feet,
Going, did they but know, the self-same way
As all those bones as white as the white May...

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