English Poems by Richard Le Gallienne Part 8

Within the town, the lamps of sin are flaring, Poor foolish men that know not what ye are!

Tired traffic still upon his feet is faring-- Two lovers meet and kiss and watch a star.

THE CITY IN MOONLIGHT

Dear city in the moonlight dreaming, How changed and lovely is your face; Where is the sordid busy scheming That filled all day the market-place?

Was it but fancy that a rabble Of money-changers bought and sold, Filling with sacrilegious babble This temple-court of solemn gold?

Ah no, poor captive-slave of Croesus, His bond-maid all the toiling day, You, like some hunted child of Jesus, Steal out beneath the moon to pray.

OF POETS AND POETRY

To James Ashcroft n.o.ble,

Poet and Critic, a small acknowledgment of much unforgotten kindness

INSCRIPTIONS

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 G.o.d 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.

THE DeCADENT TO HIS SOUL

The Decadent was speaking to his soul-- Poor useless thing, he said, Why did G.o.d burden me with such as thou?

The body were enough, The body gives me all.

The soul's a sort of sentimental wife That prays and whimpers of the higher life, Objects to latch-keys, and bewails the old, The dear old days, of pa.s.sion and of dream, When life was a blank canvas, yet untouched Of the great painter Sin.

Yet, little soul, thou hast fine eyes, And knowest fine airy motions, Hast a voice-- Why wilt thou so devote them to the church?

His face grew strangely sweet-- As when a toad smiles.

He dreamed of a new sin: An incest 'twixt the body and the soul.

He drugged his soul, and in a house of sin She played all she remembered out of heaven For him to kiss and clip by.

He took a little harlot in his hands, And she made all his veins like boiling oil, Then that grave organ made them cool again.

Then from that day, he used his soul As bitters to the over dulcet sins, As olives to the fatness of the feast-- She made those dear heart-breaking ecstasies Of minor chords amid the Phrygian flutes, She sauced his sins with splendid memories, Starry regrets and infinite hopes and fears; His holy youth and his first love Made pearly background to strange-coloured vice.

Sin is no sin when virtue is forgot.

It is so good in sin to keep in sight The white hills whence we fell, to measure by-- To say I was so high, so white, so pure, And am so low, so blood-stained and so base; I revel here amid the sweet sweet mire And yonder are the hills of morning flowers; So high, so low; so lost and with me yet; To stretch the octave 'twixt the dream and deed, Ah, that's the thrill!

To dream so well, to do so ill,-- There comes the bitter-sweet that makes the sin.

First drink the stars, then grunt amid the mire, So shall the mire have something of the stars, And the high stars be fragrant of the mire.

The Decadent was speaking to his soul-- Dear witch, I said the body was enough.

How young, how simple as a suckling child!

And then I dreamed--'an incest 'twixt the body and the soul:'

Let's wed, I thought, the seraph with the dog, And wait the purple thing that shall be born.

And now look round--seest thou this bloom?

Seven petals and each petal seven dyes, The stem is gilded and the root in blood: That came of thee.

Yea, all my flowers were single save for thee.

I pluck seven fruits from off a single tree, I pluck seven flowers from off a single stem, I light my palace with the seven stars, And eat strange dishes to Gregorian chants: All thanks to thee.

But the soul wept with hollow hectic face, Captive in that lupanar of a man.

And I who pa.s.sed by heard and wept for both,-- The man was once an apple-cheek dear lad, The soul was once an angel up in heaven.

O let the body be a healthy beast, And keep the soul a singing soaring bird; But lure thou not the soul from out the sky To pipe unto the body in the sty.

TO A POET

As one, the secret lover of a queen, Watches her move within the people's eye, Hears their poor chatter as she pa.s.ses by, And smiles to think of what his eyes have seen; The little room where love did 'shut them in,'

The fragrant couch whereon they twain did lie, And rests his hand where on his heart doth die A bruised daffodil of last night's sin:

So, Poet, as I read your rhyme once more Here where a thousand eyes may read it too, I smile your own sweet secret smile at those Who deem the outer petals of the rose The rose's heart--I, who through grace of you, Have known it for my own so long before.

THE Pa.s.sIONATE READER TO HIS POET

Doth it not thrill thee, Poet, Dead and dust though thou art, To feel how I press thy singing Close to my heart?--

Take it at night to my pillow, Kiss it before I sleep, And again when the delicate morning Beginneth to peep?

See how I bathe thy pages Here in the light of the sun, Through thy leaves, as a wind among roses, The breezes shall run.

Feel how I take thy poem And bury within it my face, As I pressed it last night in the heart of a flower, Or deep in a dearer place.

Think, as I love thee, Poet, A thousand love beside, Dear women love to press thee too Against a sweeter side.