Sorcery

Face with the forest eyes,
And the wayward wild-wood hair,
How shall a man be wise,
When a girl's so fair;
How, with her face once seen,
Shall life be as it has been,
This many a year?

Beautiful fearful thing!
You undulant sorcery!
I dare not hear you sing,
Dance not for me;
The whiteness of your breast,
Divinely manifest
I must not see.

Too late, thou luring child,
Moon matches little moon;
I must not be beguiled,
With the honied tune:
Yet O to lay my head
Twixt moon and moon!
'Twas so my sad heart said,
Only last June.

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

Corydon's Farewell To His Pipe

Richard Le Gallienne, Simple Poetry

The Valley

Richard Le Gallienne, Simple Poetry

The End Of Laughter

Richard Le Gallienne, Simple Poetry

Come, My Celia

Richard Le Gallienne, Simple Poetry

English

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The loveliest face! I turned to her
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And pointed where a wild-rose grew,
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Sorcery

"What voice is that I hear
Crying across the pool?"
"It is the voice of Pan you hear,
Crying his sorceries shrill and clear,
In the twilight dim and cool."

"What song is it he sings,
Echoing from afar;
While the sweet swallow bends her wings,
Filling the air with twitterings,
Beneath the brightening star?"

The woodman answered me,
His faggot on his back: -
"Seek not the face of Pan to see;
Flee from his clear note summoning thee
To darkness deep and black!"

"He dwells in thickest shade,
Piping his notes forlorn
Of sorrow never to be allayed;
Turn from his coverts sad
Of twilight unto morn!"

The woodman passed away
Along the forest path;
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The Dryad

My dryad hath her hiding place
Among ten thousand trees.
    She flies to cover
    At step of a lover,
And where to find her lovely face
Only the woodland bees
    Ever discover,
Bringing her honey
From meadows sunny,
    Cowslip and clover.

Vainly on beech and oak I knock
Amid the silent boughs;
    Then hear her laughter,
    The moment after,
Making of me her laughing-stock
Within her hidden house.

The young moon with her wand of pearl
Taps on her hidden door,
    Bids her beauty flower
    In that woodland bower,
All white like a mortal girl,
With moonshine hallowed o'er.

Yet were there thrice ten thousand trees
To hide her face from me,
    Not all her fleeing
    Should 'scape my seeing,

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Young Love I - "Surely at last, O Lady, the sweet moon"

N.B. - This sequence of poems has appeared in former editions under the title of 'Love Platonic.'


I

1
Surely at last, O Lady, the sweet moon
That bringeth in the happy singing weather
Groweth to pearly queendom, and full soon
Shall Love and Song go hand in hand together;
For all the pain that all too long hath waited
In deep dumb darkness shall have speech at last,
And the bright babe Death gave the Love he mated
Shall leap to light and kiss the weeping past.

For all the silver morning is a-glimmer
With gleaming spears of great Apollo's host,
And the night fadeth like a spent out swimmer
Hurled from the headlands of some shining coast.
O, happy soul, thy mouth at last is singing,
Drunken with wine of morning's azure deep,
Si...

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Fairy Sketch - Scene - Netley Abbey

There was a morrice on the moonlight plain,
And music echoed in the woody glade,
For fay-like forms, as of Titania's train,
Upon a summer eve, beneath the shade
Of Netley's ivied ruins, to the sound
Of sprightly minstrelsy did beat the ground:
Come, take hands! and lightly move,
While our boat, in yonder cove,
Rests upon the darkening sea;
Come, take hands, and follow me!

Netley! thy dim and desolated fane
Hath heard, perhaps, the spirits of the night
Shrieking, at times, amid the wind and rain;
Or haply, when the full-orbed moon shone bright,
Thy glimmering aisles have echoed to the song
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The White Maiden And The Indian Girl.

"Child of the Woods, bred in leafy dell,
See the palace home in which I dwell,
With its lofty walls and casements wide,
And objects of beauty on every side;
Now, tell me, dost thou not think it bliss
To dwell in a home as bright as this?"

"Has my pale-faced sister never seen
My home in the pleasant forest green,
With the sunshine weaving its threads of gold
Through the boughs of elm and of maples old,
And soft green moss and wild flowers sweet,
What carpet more fitting for maidens' feet?"

"Well, see these diamonds of price untold,
These costly trinkets of burnished gold,
With rich soft robes - my daily wear -
These graceful flower-wreaths for my hair;
And now, at least, thou must frankly tell
Thou would'st like such garb and jewels well."

Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon