English Poems by Richard Le Gallienne Part 6

What of the Darkness? Is it very fair?

AD CIMMERIOS

(_A Prefatory Sonnet for_ SANTA LUCIA_, the Misses Hodgkin's Magazine for the Blind)_

We, deeming day-light fair, and loving well Its forms and dyes, and all the motley play Of lives that win their colour from the day, Are fain some wonder of it all to tell To you that in that elder kingdom dwell Of Ancient Night, and thus we make a.s.say Day to translate to Darkness, so to say, To talk Cimmerian for a little spell.

Yet, as we write, may we not doubt lest ye Should smile on us, as once our fathers smiled, When we made vaunt of joys they knew no more; Knowing great dreams young eyes can never see, Dwelling in peace unguessed of any child-- Will ye smile thus upon our daylight lore?

OLD LOVE-LETTERS

You ask and I send. It is well, yea! best: A lily hangs dead on its stalk, ah me!

A dream hangs dead on a life it blest.

Shall it flaunt its death where sad eyes may see In the cold dank wind of our memory?

Shall we watch it rot like an empty nest?

Love's ghost, poor pitiful mockery-- Bury these shreds and behold it shall rest.

And shall life fail if one dream be sped?

For loss of one bloom shall the lily pa.s.s?

Nay, bury these deep round the roots, for so In soil of old dreams do the new dreams grow, New 'Hail' is begot of the old 'Alas.'

See, here are our letters, so sweet--so dead.

DEATH IN A LONDON LODGING

'Yes, Sir, she's gone at last--'twas only five minutes ago We heard her sigh from her corner,--she sat in the kitchen, you know: We were all just busy on breakfast, John cleaning the boots, and I Had just gone into the larder--but you could have heard that sigh Right up in the garret, sir, for it seemed to pa.s.s one by Like a puff of wind--may be 'twas her soul, who knows-- And we all looked up and ran to her--just in time to see her head Was sinking down on her bosom and "she's gone at last," I said.'

So Mrs. Pownceby, meeting on the stairs Her second-floor lodger, me, bound citywards, Told of her sister's death, doing her best To match her face's colour with the news: While I in listening made a running gloss Beneath her speech of all she left unsaid.

As--'in the kitchen,' _rather in the way,_ _Poor thing_; 'busy on breakfast,' _awkward time_, _Indeed, for one must live and lodgers' meals_, _You know, must be attended to what comes_-- (Or goes, I added for her) _yes! indeed_.

'"She's gone at last," I said,' _and better perhaps_, _For what had life for her but suffering?_ _And then, we're only poor, sir, John and I_, _And she indeed was somewhat of a strain_: _O! yes, it's for the best for all of us_.

And still beneath all else methought I read '_What will the lodgers think, having the dead_ _Within the house! how inconvenient!_'

What did the lodgers think? Well, I replied In grief's set phrase, but 'the first floor,'

I fancy, frowned at first, as though indeed Landladies' sisters had no right to die And taint the air for nervous lodger folk; Then smoothed his brow out into decency, And said, 'how sad!' and presently inquired The day of burial, ending with the hope His lunch would not be late like yesterday.

The maiden-lady living near the roof Quoted Isaiah may be, or perhaps Job-- How the Lord gives, and likewise takes away, And how exceeding blessed is the Lord!-- For she has pious features; while downstairs Two 'medicals'--both 'decent' lads enough-- Hearkened the story out like gentlemen, And said the right thing--almost looked it too!

Though all the while within them laughed a sea Of student mirth, which for full half an hour They stifled well, but then could hold no more, As soon their mad piano testified: While in the kitchen dinner was toward With hiss and bubble from the cooking stove, And now a laugh from John ran up the stairs, And a voice called aloud--of boiling pans.

'So soon,' reflected I, 'the waters of life Close o'er the sunken head!' Reflected _I_, Not that in truth I was more pitiful To the poor dead than those about me were, Nay, but a trick of thinking much on Life And Death i' the piece giveth each little strand More deep significance--love for the whole Must make us tender for the parts, methinks, As in some souls the equal law holds true, Sorrow for one makes sorrow for the world.

A fallen leaf or a dead flower indeed Has made me just as sad, or some poor bee Dead in the early summer--what's the odds?

Death was at '48,' and yet what sign?

Who seemed to know? who could have known that called?

For not a blind was lower than its wont-- 'The lodgers would not like them down,' you know-- And in all rooms, save one, the boisterous life Blazed like the fires within the several grates-- Save one where lay the poor dead silent thing, A closest chill as who hath sat at night With love beside the ingle knows the ashes In the morning.

Death was at '48,'

Yet Life and Love and Sunlight were there too.

I ate and slept, and morning came at length And brought my Lady's letter to my bed: Thrice read and thirty kisses, came a thought, As the sweet morning laughed about the room Of the poor face downstairs, the sunshine there Playing about it like a wakeful child Whose weary mother sleepeth in the dawn, Pressing soft fingers round about the eyes To make them open, then with laughing shout Making a gambol all her body's length Ah me! poor eyes that never open more!

And mine as blithe to meet the morning's glance As thirsty lips to close on thirsty lips!

Poor limbs no sun could ever warm again!

And mine so eager for the coming day!

TIME FLIES

On drives the road--another mile! and still Time's horses gallop down the lessening hill O why such haste, with nothing at the end!

Fain are we all, grim driver, to descend And stretch with lingering feet the little way That yet is ours--O stop thy horses, pray!

Yet, sister dear, if we indeed had grace To win from Time one lasting halting-place, Which out of all life's valleys would we choose, And, choosing--which with willingness would lose?

Would we as children be content to stay, Because the children are as birds all day;

Or would we still as youngling lovers kiss, Fearing the ardours of the greater bliss?

The maid be still a maid and never know Why mothers love their little blossoms so Or can the mother be content her bud Shall never open out of babyhood?

Ah yes, Time flies because we fain would fly, It is such ardent souls as you and I, Greedy of living, give his wings to him-- And now we grumble that he uses them!

SO SOON TIRED!

Am I so soon grown tired?--yet this old sky Can open still each morn so blue an eye, This great old river still through nights and days Run like a happy boy to holidays, This sun be still a bridegroom, though long wed, And still those stars go singing up the night, Glad as yon lark there splashing in the light: Are these old things indeed unwearied, Yet I, so soon grown tired, would creep away to bed!

AUTUMN

The year grows still again, the surging wake Of full-sailed summer folds its furrows up, As after pa.s.sing of an argosy Old Silence settles back upon the sea, And ocean grows as placid as a cup.

Spring, the young morn, and Summer, the strong noon, Have dreamed and done and died for Autumn's sake: Autumn that finds not for a loss so dear Solace in stack and garner hers too soon-- Autumn, the faithful widow of the year.

Autumn, a poet once so full of song, Wise in all rhymes of blossom and of bud, Hath lost the early magic of his tongue, And hath no pa.s.sion in his failing blood.

Hear ye no sound of sobbing in the air?

'Tis his. Low bending in a secret lane, Late blooms of second childhood in his hair, He tries old magic, like a dotard mage; Tries spell and spell, to weep and try again: Yet not a daisy hears, and everywhere The hedgerow rattles like an empty cage.

He hath no pleasure in his silken skies, Nor delicate ardours of the yellow land; Yea, dead, for all its gold, the woodland lies, And all the throats of music filled with sand.

Neither to him across the stubble field May stack nor garner any comfort bring, Who loveth more this jasmine he hath made, The little tender rhyme he yet can sing, Than yesterday, with all its pompous yield, Or all its shaken laurels on his head.

A FROST FANCY

Summer gone, Winter here; Ways are white, Skies are clear.

And the sun A ruddy boy All day sliding, While at night The stars appear Like skaters gliding On a mere.

THE WORLD IS WIDE

The world is wide--around yon court, Where dirty little children play, Another world of street on street Grows wide and wider every day.

And round the town for endless miles A great strange land of green is spread-- O wide the world, O weary-wide, But it is wider overhead.

For could you mount yon glittering stairs And on their topmost turret stand,-- Still endless shining courts and squares, And lanes of lamps on every hand.