Who Was It Swept Against My Door

Who was it swept against my door just now,
With rustling robes like Autumn's - was it thou?
Ah! would it were thy gown against my door -
Only thy gown once more.

Sometimes the snow, sometimes the fluttering breath
Of April, as toward May she wandereth,
Make me a moment think that it is thou -
But yet it is not thou!

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

Sunset In The City

Richard Le Gallienne, Simple Poetry

Autumn

Richard Le Gallienne, Simple Poetry

The World Is Wide

Richard Le Gallienne, Simple Poetry

Young Love XIV - A June Lily

Richard Le Gallienne, Simple Poetry

English

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The Door Ajar

My door is always left ajar,
Lest you should suddenly slip through,
A little breathless frightened star;
Each footfall sets my heart abeat,
I always think it may be you,
Stolen in from the street.

My ears are evermore attent,
Waiting in vain for one blest sound -
The little frock, with lilac scent,
That used to whisper up the stair;
Then in my arms with one wild bound -
Your lips, your eyes, your hair.
Never the south wind through the rose,
Brushing its petals with soft hand,
Made such sweet talking as your clothes,
Rustling and fragrant as you came,
And at my aching door would stand -
Then vanish into flame.

Richard Le Gallienne

Morning Lament.

Oh thou cruel deadly-lovely maiden,
Tell me what great sin have I committed,
That thou keep'st me to the rack thus fasten'd,
That thou hast thy solemn promise broken?

'Twas but yestere'en that thou with fondness
Press'd my hand, and these sweet accents murmured:
"Yes, I'll come, I'll come when morn approacheth,
Come, my friend, full surely to thy chamber."

On the latch I left my doors, unfasten'd,
Having first with care tried all the hinges,
And rejoic'd right well to find they creak'd not.

What a night of expectation pass'd I!
For I watch'd, and ev'ry chime I number'd;
If perchance I slept a few short moments,
Still my heart remain'd awake forever,
And awoke me from my gentle slumbers.

Yes, then bless'd I night's o'erhanging darkness,<...

Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

Resurrection

Is it your face I see, your voice I hear?
    Your face, your voice, again after these years!
O is your cheek once more against my cheek?
    And is this blessed rain, angel, your tears?

You have come back, - how strange - out of the grave;
    Its dreams are in your eyes, and still there clings
Dust of the grave on your vainglorious hair;
    And a mysterious rust is on these rings -

The ring we gave each other, that young night
    When the moon rose on our betrothal kiss;
When the sun rose upon our wedding day,
    How wonderful it was to give you this!

I dreamed you were a bird or a wild flower,
    Some changed lovely thing that was not you;
Maybe, I said, she is the morning star,
    A radiance unfathomably far -

And now again you...

Richard Le Gallienne

Winter

Winter, some call thee fair,
Yea! flatter thy cold face
With vain compare
Of all thy glittering ways
And magic snows
With summer and the rose;
Thy phantom flowers
And fretted traceries
Of crystal breath,
Thy frozen and fantastic art of death,
With April as she showers
The violet on the leas,
And bares her bosom
In the blossoming trees,
And dances on her way
To laugh with May -
Winter that hath no bird
To sing thee, and no bloom
To deck thy brow:
To me thou art an empty haunted room,
Where once the music
Of the summer stirred,
And all the dancers
Fallen on silence now.

Richard Le Gallienne

I Said - I Care Not

I said - I care not if I can
    But look into her eyes again,
But lay my hand within her hand
    Just once again.

Though all the world be filled with snow
    And fire and cataclysmal storm,
I'll cross it just to lay my head
    Upon her bosom warm.

Ah! bosom made of April flowers,
    Might I but bring this aching brain,
This foolish head, and lay it down
    On April once again!

Richard Le Gallienne

Autumn

The sad nights are here and the sad mornings,
The air is filled with portents and with warnings,
Clouds that vastly loom and winds that cry,
A mournful prescience
Of bright things going hence;
Red leaves are blown about the widowed sky,
And late disconsolate blooms
Dankly bestrew
The garden walks, as in deserted rooms
The parted guest, in haste to bid adieu,
Trinklets and shreds forgotten left behind,
Torn letters and a ribbon once so brave -
Wreckage none cares to save,
And hearts grow sad to find;
And phantom echoes, as of old foot-falls,
Wander and weary out in the thin air,
And the last cricket calls -
A tiny sorrow, shrilling "Where? ah! where?"

Richard Le Gallienne