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.

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

The Animalcule On Man

Richard Le Gallienne, Simple Poetry

Time's Monotone

Richard Le Gallienne, Simple Poetry

Under Which King . . . ?

Richard Le Gallienne, Simple Poetry

Hesperides

Richard Le Gallienne, Simple Poetry

English

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Blue Flower

Blue flower waving in the wind,
    Say whose blue eyes
Lift up your swaying fragile stem
    To the blue skies.

Is she a queen that lies asleep
    In a green hill,
With all her silver ornaments
    Around her still?

Or is she but a simple girl,
    Whose boy was drowned,
In some cold sea, some stormy morn,
    On some blue sound?

Richard Le Gallienne

Her Beautiful Eyes.

    O her beautiful eyes! they are as blue as the dew
    On the violet's bloom when the morning is new,
    And the light of their love is the gleam of the sun
    O'er the meadows of Spring where the quick shadows run:
    As the morn shirts the mists and the clouds from the skies -
    So I stand in the dawn of her beautiful eyes.

    And her beautiful eyes are as midday to me,
    When the lily-bell bends with the weight of the bee,
    And the throat of the thrush is a-pulse in the heat,
    And the senses are drugged with the subtle and sweet
    And delirious breaths of the air's lullabies -
    So I swoon in the noon of her beautiful eyes.

    O her beautiful eyes! they have smitten mine own
    As a glory glanced down from the glare of The Throne;
 ...

James Whitcomb Riley

Song

She's somewhere in the sunlight strong,
    Her tears are in the falling rain,
She calls me in the wind's soft song,
    And with the flowers she comes again.

Yon bird is but her messenger,
    The moon is but her silver car;
Yea! sun and moon are sent by her,
    And every wistful waiting star.

Richard Le Gallienne

To A Beautiful Old Lady

(To the Sweet Memory of Lucy Hinton)

Say not - "She once was fair;" because the years
Have changed her beauty to a holier thing,
No girl hath such a lovely face as hers,
That hoards the sweets of many a vanished spring,
Stealing from Time what Time in vain would steal,
Culling perfections as each came to flower,
Bearing on each rare lineament the seal
Of being exquisite from hour to hour.

These eyes have dwelt with beauty night and morn,
Guarding the soul within from every stain,
No baseness since the first day she was born
Behind those star-lit brows could access again,
Bathed in the light that streamed from all things fair,
Turning to spirit each delicate door of sense,
And with all lovely shapes of earth and air
Feeding her wisdom and her innoce...

Richard Le Gallienne

Lines Upon Seeing ---- At One Of The Annual Banquets Given In Guildhall.

Gorgeous and splendid was the sight;
From myriad lamps a fairy light
Enshrin'd in wreaths the Gothic wall,
And heav'nly music fill'd the hall!

But there was one - (alas! that I
Had ever seen) - the melody
Her voice surpassed, and brighter far
Her eyes than ev'ry mimic star!

I gaz'd, until, oh! thought divine!
I fancied she I saw was mine;
But soon the beauteous vision flew -
The stranger-form I lov'd withdrew.

Yet still she lives within my breast,
There mem'ry has her form imprest: -
Thus, when some minstrel's strain is done,
Sounds seem to breathe, for ever gone!

John Carr

Alma Venus

Only a breath - hardly a breath! The shore
Is still a huddled alabaster floor
Of shelving ice and shattered slabs of cold,
Stern wreckage of the fiercely frozen wave,
Gleaming in mailed wastes of white and gold;
As though the sea, in an enchanted grave,
Of fearful crystal locked, no more shall stir
Softly, all lover, to the April moon:
Hardly a breath! yet was I now aware
Of a most delicate balm upon the air,
Almost a voice that almost whispered "soon"!

Not of the earth it was - no living thing
Moves in the iron landscape far or near,
Saving, in raucous flight, the winter crow,
Staining the whiteness with its ebon wing,
Or silver-sailing gull, or 'mid the drear
Rock cedars, like a summer soul astray,
A lone red squirrel makes believe to play,
N...

Richard Le Gallienne