Lovers

Why should I ask perfection of thee, sweet,
That have so little of mine own to bring?
That thou art beautiful from head to feet -
Is that, beloved, such a little thing,
That I should ask more of thee, and should fling
Thy largesse from me, in a world like this,
O generous giver of thy perfect kiss?

Thou gavest me thy lips, thine eyes, thine hair;
I brought thee worship - was it not thy due?
If thou art cruel - still art thou not fair?
Roses thou gavest - shalt thou not bring rue?
Alas! have I not brought thee sorrow too?
How dare I face the future and its drouth,
Missing that golden honeycomb thy mouth?

Kiss and make up - 'tis the wise ancient way;
Back to my arms, O bountiful deep breast!
No more of words that know not what they say;
To kiss is wisdom - folly all the rest.
Dear loveliness so mercifully pressed
Against my heart - I shake with sudden fear
To think - to losing thee I came so near.

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

Love In Spain

Richard Le Gallienne, Simple Poetry

Paolo And Francesca

Richard Le Gallienne, Simple Poetry

If, After All ...!

Richard Le Gallienne, Simple Poetry

Faery Gold

Richard Le Gallienne, Simple Poetry

English

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Listen, Beloved

Listen, Beloved, the Casurinas quiver,
Each tassel prays the wind to set it free,
Hark to the frantic sobbing of the river,
Wild to attain extinction in the sea.
All Nature blindly struggles to dissolve
In other forms and forces, thus to solve
The painful riddle of identity.
Ah, that my soul might lose itself in thee!

Yet, my Beloved One, wherefore seek I union,
Since there is no such thing in all the world, -
Are not our spirits linked in close communion, -
And on my lips thy clinging lips are curled?
Thy tender arms are round my shoulders thrown,
I hear thy heart more loudly than my own,
And yet, to my despair, I know thee far,
As in the stellar darkness, star from star.

Even in times when love with bounteous measure
A simultaneous joy on us...

Adela Florence Cory Nicolson

Parables

I

Dear Love, you ask if I be true,
If other women move
The heart that only beats for you
With pulses all of love.

Out in the chilly dew one morn
I plucked a wild sweet rose,
A little silver bud new-born
And longing to unclose.

I took it, loving new-born things,
I knew my heart was warm,
'O little silver rose, come in
And shelter from the storm.'

And soon, against my body pressed,
I felt its petals part,
And, looking down within my breast
I saw its golden heart.

O such a golden heart it has,
Your eyes may never see,
To others it is always shut,
It opens but for me.

But that is why you see me pass
The honeysuckle there,
And leave the lilies in the grass,
Although they be so fair;

Richard Le Gallienne

A Pretty Woman

I.
That fawn-skin-dappled hair of hers,
And the blue eye
Dear and dewy,
And that infantine fresh air of hers!

II.
To think men cannot take you, Sweet,
And enfold you,
Ay, and hold you,
And so keep you what they make you, Sweet!

III.
You like us for a glance, you know
For a words sake
Or a swords sake,
Alls the same, whateer the chance, you know.

IV.
And in turn we make you ours, we say
You and youth too,
Eyes and mouth too,
All the face composed of flowers, we say.

V.
Alls our own, to make the most of, Sweet
Sing and say for,
Watch and pray for,
Keep a secret or go boast of, Sweet!

VI.
But for loving, why, you would not, Sweet,
Though we prayed you,
Paid you, brayed ...

Robert Browning

Love's Tenderness

Deem not my love is only for the bloom,
The honey and the marble, that is You;
Tis so, Belovéd, common loves consume
Their treasury, and vanish like the dew.
Nay, but my love's a thing that's far more true;
For little loves a little hour hath room,
But not for us their brief and trivial doom,
In a far richer soil our loving grew,
From deeper wells of being it upsprings;
Nor shall the wildest kiss that makes one mouth,
    Draining all nectar from the flowered world,
Slake its divine unfathomable drouth;
    And, when your wings against my heart lie furled,
With what a tenderness it dreams and sings!

Richard Le Gallienne

Beauty Accurst

I am so fair that wheresoe'er I wend
Men yearn with strange desire to kiss my face,
Stretch out their hands to touch me as I pass,
And women follow me from place to place.

A poet writing honey of his dear
Leaves the wet page, - ah! leaves it long to dry.
The bride forgets it is her marriage-morn,
The bridegroom too forgets as I go by.

Within the street where my strange feet shall stray
All markets hush and traffickers forget,
In my gold head forget their meaner gold,
The poor man grows unmindful of his debt.

Two lovers kissing in a secret place,
Should I draw nigh, - will never kiss again;
I come between the king and his desire,
And where I am all loving else is vain.

Lo! when I walk along the woodland way
Strange creatures leer at...

Richard Le Gallienne

After Tibullus

Illius est nobis lege colendus amor

On her own terms, O lover, must thou take
The heart's beloved: be she kind, 'tis well,
Cruel, expect no more; not for thy sake
But for the fire in thee that melts her snows
For a brief spell
She loves thee - "loves" thee!    Though thy heart should break,
Though thou shouldst lie athirst for her in hell,
    She could not pity thee: who of the Rose,
Or of the Moon, asks pity, or return
    Of love for love? and she is even as those.
Beauty is she, thou Love, and thou must learn,
O lover, this:
Thine is she for the music thou canst pour
    Through her white limbs, the madness, the deep dream;
Thine, while thy kiss
    Can sweep her flaming with thee down the stream
That is not thou nor she but merely bliss;...

Richard Le Gallienne