The Lonely Dancer and Other Poems Part 1

The Lonely Dancer and Other Poems.

by Richard Le Gallienne.

TO

IRMA

ALL THE WAY

Not all my treasure hath the bandit Time Locked in his glimmering caverns of the Past: Fair women dead and friendships of old rhyme, And n.o.ble dreams that had to end at last:-- Ah! these indeed; and from youth's sacristy Full many a holy relic hath he torn, Vessels of mystic faith G.o.d filled for me, Holding them up to Him in life's young morn.

All these are mine no more--Time hath them all, Time and his adamantine gaoler Death: Despoilure vast--yet seemeth it but small, When unto thee I turn, thy bloom and breath Filling with light and incense the last shrine, Innermost, inaccessible,--yea, thine.

THE LONELY DANCER

I had no heart to join the dance, I danced it all so long ago-- Ah! light-winged music out of France, Let other feet glide to and fro, Weaving new patterns of romance For bosoms of new-fallen snow.

But leave me thus where I may hear The leafy rustle of the waltz, The sh.e.l.l-like murmur in my ear, The silken whisper fairy-false Of unseen rainbows circling near, And the glad shuddering of the walls.

Another dance the dancers spin, A shadow-dance of mystic pain, And other partners enter in And dance within my lonely brain-- The swaying woodland shod in green, The ghostly dancers of the rain;

The lonely dancers of the sea, Foam-footed on the sandy bar, The wizard dance of wind and tree, The eddying dance of stream and star; Yea, all these dancers tread for me A measure mournful and bizarre:

An echo-dance where ear is eye, And sound evokes the shapes of things, Where out of silence and a sigh The sad world like a picture springs, As, when some secret bird sweeps by, We see it in the sound of wings.

Those human feet upon the floor, That eager pulse of rhythmic breath,-- How sadly to an unknown sh.o.r.e Each silver footfall hurryeth; A dance of autumn leaves, no more, On the fantastic wind of death.

Fire clasped to elemental fire, 'Tis thus the solar atom whirls; The b.u.t.terfly in aery gyre, On autumn mornings, swarms and swirls, In dance of delicate desire, No other than these boys and girls.

The same strange music everywhere, The woven paces just the same, Dancing from out the viewless air Into the void from whence they came; Ah! but they make a gallant flare Against the dark, each little flame!

And what if all the meaning lies Just in the music, not in those Who dance thus with transfigured eyes, Holding in vain each other close; Only the music never dies, The dance goes on,--the dancer goes.

A woman dancing, or a world Poised on one crystal foot afar, In shining gulfs of silence whirled, Like notes of the strange music are; Small shape against another curled, Or dancing dust that makes a star.

To him who plays the violin All one it is who joins the reel, Drops from the dance, or enters in; So that the never-ending wheel Cease not its mystic course to spin, For weal or woe, for woe or weal.

I

FLOS AEVORUM

You must mean more than just this hour, You perfect thing so subtly fair, Simple and complex as a flower, Wrought with such planetary care; How patient the eternal power That wove the marvel of your hair.

How long the sunlight and the sea Wove and re-wove this rippling gold To rhythms of eternity; And many a flashing thing grew old, Waiting this miracle to be; And painted marvels manifold,

Still with his work unsatisfied, Eager each new effect to try, The solemn artist cast aside, Rainbow and sh.e.l.l and b.u.t.terfly, As some stern blacksmith scatters wide The sparks that from his anvil fly.

How many sh.e.l.ls, whorl within whorl, Litter the marges of the sphere With wrack of unregarded pearl, To shape that little thing your ear: Creation, just to make one girl, Hath travailed with exceeding fear.

The moonlight of forgotten seas Dwells in your eyes, and on your tongue The honey of a million bees, And all the sorrows of all song: You are the ending of all these, The world grew old to make you young.

All time hath traveled to this rose; To the strange making of this face Came agonies of fires and snows; And Death and April, nights and days Unnumbered, unimagined throes, Find in this flower their meeting place.

Strange artist, to my aching thought Give answer: all the patient power That to this perfect ending wrought, Shall it mean nothing but an hour?

Say not that it is all for nought Time brings Eternity a flower.

All the words in all the world Cannot tell you how I love you, All the little stars that shine To make a silver crown above you;

"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 s.p.a.ce, Hallowed and lonely in the dawn, Shall sing the poem of your face.

"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!

"ALL THE WIDE WORLD IS BUT THE THOUGHT OF YOU"

All the wide world is but the thought of you: Who made you out of wonder and of dew?

Was it some G.o.d with tears in his deep eyes, Who loved a woman white and over-wise, That strangely put all violets in your hair-- And put into your face all distance too?

"LIGHTNINGS MAY FLICKER ROUND MY HEAD"

Lightnings may flicker round my head, And all the world seem doom, If you, like a wild rose, will walk Strangely into the room.

If only my sad heart may hear Your voice of faery laughter-- What matters though the heavens fall, And h.e.l.l come thundering after.

"THE AFTERNOON IS LONELY FOR YOUR FACE"

The afternoon is lonely for your face, The pampered morning mocks the day's decline-- I was so rich at noon, the sun was mine, Mine the sad sea that in that rocky place Girded us round with blue betrothal ring.

Because your heart was mine, your heart, that precious thing.

The night will be a desert till the dawn, Unless you take some ferry-boat of dreams, And glide to me, a glory of silver beams, Under my eyelids, like sad curtains drawn; So, by good hap, my heart can find its way Where all your sweetness lies in fragrant disarray.