To Maggie Le Gallienne With Love

        Poor are the gifts of the poet -
        Nothing but words!
        The gifts of kings are gold,
        Silver, and flocks and herds,
        Garments of strange soft silk,
        Feathers of wonderful birds,
        Jewels and precious stones,
        And horses white as the milk -
        These are the gifts of kings:
        But the gifts that the poet brings
        Are nothing but words.

        Forty thousand words!
        Take them - a gift of flies!
        Words that should have been birds,
        Words that should have been flowers,
        Words that should have been stars
        In the eternal skies.
        Forty thousand words!
        Forty thousand tears -
        All out of two sad eyes.

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

Primum Mobile

Richard Le Gallienne, Simple Poetry

The World's Musqueteer: To Marshal Foch

Richard Le Gallienne, Simple Poetry

Paths That Wind . . .

Richard Le Gallienne, Simple Poetry

To A Rose

Richard Le Gallienne, Simple Poetry

English

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Faery Gold

(TO MRS. PERCY DEARMER)

A poet hungered, as well he might -
Not a morsel since yesternight!
And sad he grew - good reason why -
For the poet had nought wherewith to buy.

'Are not two sparrows sold,' he cried,
'Sold for a farthing? and,' he sighed,
As he pushed his morning post away,
'Are not two sonnets more than they?'

Yet store of gold, great store had he, -
Of the gold that is known as 'faery.'
He had the gold of his burning dreams,
He had his golden rhymes - in reams,
He had the strings of his golden lyre,
And his own was that golden west on fire.

But the poet knew his world too well
To dream that such would buy or sell.
He had his poets, 'pure gold,' he said,
But the man at the bookstall shook his head,
And offered a...

Richard Le Gallienne

Love's Arithmetic

You often ask me, love, how much I love you,
Bidding my fancy find
An answer to your mind;
I say: "Past count, as there are stars above you."
You shake your head and say,
"Many and bright are they,
But that is not enough."

        Again I try:
"If all the leaves on all the trees
Were counted over,
And all the waves on all the seas,
More times your lover,
Yea! more than twice ten thousand times am I."
"'Tis not enough," again you make reply.

"How many blades of grass," one day I said,
"Are there from here to China? how many bees
Have gathered honey through the centuries?
Tell me how many roses have bloomed red
Since the first rose till this rose in your hair?
How many butterflies are born each year?
How many raindrops are there i...

Richard Le Gallienne

Inscriptions (Of Poets And Poetry)

Poet, a truce to your song!
Have you heard the heart sing?
Like a brook among trees,
Like the humming of bees,
Like the ripple of wine:
Had you heard, would you stay
Blowing bubbles so long?
You have ears for the spheres -
Have you heard the heart sing?

*            *            *            *            *

Have you loved the good books of the world, -
And written none?
Have you loved the great poet, -
And burnt your little rhyme?
'O be my friend, and teach me to be thine.'

*            *            *            *            *

By many hands the work of God is done,
Swart toil, pale thought, flushed dream, he spurneth none:
Yea! and the weaver of a little rhyme
Is seen his worker in his own full time.

Richard Le Gallienne

All The Words In All The World

All the flowers cannot weave
    A garland worthy of your hair,
Not a bird in the four winds
    Can sing of you that is so fair.

Only the spheres can sing of you;
    Some planet in celestial space,
Hallowed and lonely in the dawn,
    Shall sing the poem of your face.

Richard Le Gallienne

The Language Of Flowers.

Fly swift, my light gazelle,
    To her who now lies waking,
To hear thy silver bell
    The midnight silence breaking.
And, when thou com'st, with gladsome feet,
    Beneath her lattice springing,
Ah, well she'll know how sweet
    The words of love thou'rt bringing.

Yet, no--not words, for they
    But half can tell love's feeling;
Sweet flowers alone can say
    What passion fears revealing.
A once bright rose's withered leaf,
    A towering lily broken,--
Oh these may paint a grief
    No words could e'er have spoken.

Not such, my gay gazelle,
    The wreath thou speedest over
Yon moonlight dale, to tell
    My lady how I love her.
And, what to her will sweeter be
    Than gems the richest, rarest,--
From Truth's i...

Thomas Moore

Art

I.

What precious thing are you making fast
In all these silken lines?
And where and to whom will it go at last?
Such subtle knots and twines!

I am tying up all my love in this,
With all its hopes and fears,
With all its anguish and all its bliss,
And its hours as heavy as years.

I am going to send it afar, afar,
To I know not where above;
To that sphere beyond the highest star
Where dwells the soul of my Love.

But in vain, in vain, would I make it fast
With countless subtle twines;
For ever its fire breaks out at last,
And shrivels all the lines.



II.

If you have a carrier-dove
That can fly over land and sea;
And a message for your Love,
Lady, I love but thee!

And this dove wi...

James Thomson