Broken Tryst

Waiting in the woodland, watching for my sweet,
Thinking every leaf that stirs the coming of her feet,
Thinking every whisper the rustle of her gown,
How my heart goes up and up, and then goes down and down.

First it is a squirrel, then it is a dove,
Then a red fox feather-soft and footed like a dream;
All the woodland fools me, promising my love;
I think I hear her talking - 'tis but the running stream.

Vowelled talking water, mimicking her voice -
O how she promised she'd surely come to-day!
There she comes! she comes at last!    O heart of mine rejoice -
Nothing but a flight of birds winging on their way.

Lonely grows the afternoon, empty grows the world;
Day's bright banners in the west one by one are furled,
Sadly sinks the lingering sun that like a lover rose,
One by one each woodland thing loses heart and goes.

Back along the woodland, all the day is dead,
All the green has turned to gray, and all the gold to lead;
O 'tis bitter cruel, sweet, to treat a lover so:
If only I were half a man . . . I'd let the baggage go.

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

A Song Of Singers

Richard Le Gallienne, Simple Poetry

Young Love VI - Why Did She Marry Him?

Richard Le Gallienne, Simple Poetry

I Meant To Do My Work To-Day

Richard Le Gallienne, Simple Poetry

A Face In A Book

Richard Le Gallienne, Simple Poetry

English

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Young Love

Young love, all rainbows in the lane,
    Brushed by the honeysuckle vines,
Scattered the wild rose in a dream:
    A sweeter thing his arm entwines.

Ah, redder lips than any rose!
    Ah, sweeter breath than any bee
Sucks from the heart of any flower;
    Ah, bosom like the Summer sea!

A fairy creature made of dew
    And moonrise and the songs of birds,
And laughter like the running brook,
    And little soft, heart-broken words.

Haunted as marble in the moon,
    Her whiteness lies on young love's breast.
And living frankincense and myrrh
    Her lips that on his lips are pressed.

Her eyes are lost within his eyes,
    His eyes in hers are fathoms deep;
Death is not stiller than these twain
    That smile as in a magic...

Richard Le Gallienne

Lovers

They sit within a woodland place,
    Trellised with rustling light and shade;
So like a spirit is her face
    That he is half afraid
    To speak - lest she should fade.

Mysterious, beneath the boughs,
    Like two enchanted shapes, they are,
Whom Love hath builded them a house
    Of little leaf and star,
    And the brown evening jar.

So lovely and so strange a thing
    Each is to each to look upon,
They dare not hearken a bird sing,
    Or from the other one
    Take eyes - lest they be gone.

So still - the watching woodland peers
    And pecks about them, butterflies
Light on her hand - a flower; eve hears
    Two questions, two replies -
    O love that never dies!

Richard Le Gallienne

The Wood Fairy's Well.

"Thou hast been to the forest, thou sorrowing maiden,
    Where Summer reigns Queen in her fairest array,
Where the green earth with sunshine and fragrance is laden,
    And birds make sweet music throughout the long day.
Each step thou hast taken has been over flowers,
    Of forms full of beauty - of perfumes most rare,
Why comest thou home, then, with footsteps so weary,
    No smiles on thy lip, and no buds in thy hair?"

"Ah! my walk through the wild-wood has been full of sadness,
    My thoughts were with him who there oft used to rove,
That stranger with bright eyes and smiles full of gladness
    Who first taught my young heart the power of love.
He had promised to come to me ere the bright summer
    With roses and sunshine had decked hill and lea.
I, simp...

Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon

Translations. - The Tryst. (From Schiller.)

That was the sound of the wicket!
That was the latch as it rose!
    No--the wind that through the thicket
    Of the poplars whirring goes.

Put on thy beauty, foliage-vaulted roof,
Her to receive: with silent welcome grace her;
Ye branches build a shadowy room, eye-proof,
With lovely night and stillness to embrace her,
Ye airs caressing, wake, nor keep aloof,
In sport and gambol turning still to face her,
As, with its load of beauty, lightly borne,
Glides in the fairy foot, and dawns my morn.

What is that rustling the hedges?
She, with her hurrying pace?
    No, a bird among the sedges,
    Startled from its hiding-place!

Quench thy sunk torch, O Day! Steal out, appear,
Dim, ghostly Night, with dumbness us entrancing!
Spread thy ro...

George MacDonald

At The Turn Of The Road

The glory has passed from the goldenrod's plume,
The purple-hued asters still linger in bloom
The birch is bright yellow, the sumachs are red,
The maples like torches aflame overhead.

But what if the joy of the summer is past,
And winter's wild herald is blowing his blast?
For me dull November is sweeter than May,
For my love is its sunshine, - she meets me to-day!

Will she come? Will the ring-dove return to her nest?
Will the needle swing back from the east or the west?
At the stroke of the hour she will be at her gate;
A friend may prove laggard, - love never comes late.

Do I see her afar in the distance? Not yet.
Too early! Too early! She could not forget!
When I cross the old bridge where the brook overflowed,
She will flash full in sight at t...

Oliver Wendell Holmes

Love's Landmarks

The woods we used to walk, my love,
    Are woods no more,
But' villas' now with sounding names -
    All name and door.

The pond, where, early on in March,
    The yellow cup
Of water-lilies made us glad,
    Is now filled up.

But ah! what if they fill or fell
    Each pond, each tree,
What matters it to-day, my love,
    To me - to thee?

The jerry-builder may consume,
    A greedy moth,
God's mantle of the living green,
    I feel no wrath;

Eat up the beauty of the world,
    And gorge his fill
On mead and winding country lane,
    And grassy hill.

I only laugh, for now of these
    I have no care,
Now that to me the fair is foul,
    And foul as fair.

Richard Le Gallienne