Richard Le Gallienne Poems

AH, London! London! our delight,
Great flower that opens but at night,
Great City of the midnight sun,
Whose day begins when day is done.
...

The Cry of the Little Peoples went up to God in vain;
The Czech and the Pole, and the Finn, and the Schleswig
...

Above the town a monstrous wheel is turning,
With glowing spokes of red,
Low in the west its fiery axle burning;
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THE solemn light behind the barns,
The rising moon, the cricket's call,
The August night, and you and I—
What is the meaning of it all!
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Her talk was all of woodland things,
   Of little lives that pass
Away in one green afternoon,
   Deep in the haunted grass;
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The Décadent was speaking to his soul-
Poor useless thing, he said,
Why did God burden me with such as thou?
The body were enough,
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My dryad hath her hiding place
Among ten thousand trees.
She flies to cover
At step of a lover,
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There is too much beauty upon this earth
For lonely men to bear,
Too many eyes, too enchanted skies,
Too many things too fair;
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O sad-eyed man who yonder sits,
Face in a book from morn till night,
Who, though the world should go to bits,
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God gave us an hour for our tears,
One hour out of all the years,
For all the years were another's gold,
Given in a cruel troth of old.
...