English Poems — Themes and Context
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Rich were this twain, for old Lanciotto, he Who was her lord, was brother of her boy, And in one home together dwelt the three, With brothers two beside; and he and she Sat at one board together, in one fane Their voices rose upon one hymn, ah me! Beneath one roof each night their limbs had lain, As now in death they share the one eternal pain.
As much as common men can love a flower Unto Lanciotto was Francesca dear, 'Tis not on such Love wields his jealous power; And therefore Paolo moved him not to fear, Though he so green with youth and he so sere. Nor yet indeed was wrong, the hidden thing Grew at each heart, unknown of each, a year,-- Two eggs still silent in the nest through spring, May draws so near to June, and not yet time to sing!
Yet oft, indeed, through days that gave no sign Had but Francesca turned about and read Paolo's bright eyes that only dared to shine On the dear gold that glorified her head; Ere all the light had from their circles fled And the grey Honour darkened all his face: They had not come to June and nothing said, Day followed day with such an even pace, Nor night succeeded night and left no starry trace.
Or, surely, had the flower Paolo pressed In some sweet volume when he put it by. Told how his mistress drew it to her breast And called upon his name when none was nigh; Had but the scarf he kissed with piteous cry But breathed again its secret unto her, Or had but one of every little sigh Each left for each been love's true messenger: They surely had not kept that winter all the year.
Yea! love lay hushed and waiting like a seed, Some laggard of the season still abed Though the sun calls and gentle zephyrs plead, And Hope that waited long must deem it dead; Yet lo! to-morrow sees its shining head Singing at dawn 'mid all the garden throng: Ah, had it known, it had been earlier sped-- Was it for fear of day it slept so long, Or were its dreams of singing sweeter than the song?
But what poor flower can symbol all the might And all the magnitude, great Love, of thee? Ah, is there aught can image thee aright In earth or heaven, how great or fair it be? We watch the acorn grow into the tree, We watch the patient spark surprise the mine, But what are oaks to thy Ygdrasil-tree? What the mad mine's convulsive strength to thine, That wrecks a world but bids heaven's soaring steeples shine?
A god that hath no earthly metaphor, A blinding word that hath no earthly rhyme, Love! we can only call and no name more; As the great lonely thunder rolls sublime, As the great sun doth solitary climb, And we have but themselves to know them by, Just so Love stands a stranger amid Time: The god is there, the great voice speaks on high, We pray, 'What art thou, Lord?' but win us no reply.
So in the dark grew Love, but feared to flower, Dreamed to himself, but never spake a word, Burned like a prisoned fire from hour to hour, Sang his dear song like an unheeded bird; Waiting the summoning voice so long unheard, Waiting with weary eyes the gracious sign To bring his rose, and tell the dream he dared, The tremulous moment when the star should shine, And each should ask of each, and each should answer --'Thine.'
Winter to-day, but lo! to-morrow spring! They waited long, but oh at last it came, Came in a silver hush at evening; Francesca toyed with threads upon a frame, Hard by young Paolo read of knight and dame That long ago had loved and passed away: He had no other way to tell his flame, She dare not listen any other way-- But even that was bliss to lovers poor as they.
The world grew sweet with wonder in the west The while he read and while she listened there, And many a dream from out its silken nest Stole like a curling incense through the air; Yet looked she not on him, nor did he dare: But when the lovers kissed in Paradise His voice sank and he turned his gaze on her, Like a young bird that flutters ere it flies,-- And lo! a shining angel called him from her eyes.
The collection opens with an epistle dedicatory that frames poetry as a kind of theft: the poet 'hive[s] little lyrics' only to sell them, like a bee whose honey is commodified. This tension between artistic devotion and commercial reality runs through the volume. Le Gallienne's verse often shifts between intimate address and broader reflection, as in 'Death in a London Lodging,' where a landlady's casual report of a death is undercut by the speaker's ironic gloss on the thoughts left unsaid. The poems are organized into five sections, moving from narrative romance ('Paolo and Francesca') through love lyrics and domestic poems to meditations on poetry itself.
Light and Darkness as Structural Motifs
Throughout the collection, light and darkness function as more than atmospheric details. In the prefatory sonnet 'Ad Cimmerios,' addressed to blind readers, the poet attempts to 'translate' daylight into darkness, acknowledging that those who dwell in 'Ancient Night' may possess insights unknown to the sighted. The poem 'What of the Darkness?' poses the question directly, asking whether truth is found in the dark or only in undistracted contemplation. This motif recurs in 'Death in a London Lodging,' where a sigh is imagined as a soul passing 'like a puff of wind,' and in 'The City in Moonlight,' which contrasts the city's daytime bustle with its nocturnal transformation. Le Gallienne uses these contrasts to probe the limits of perception and the value of what is hidden or lost.
The Poet as Bee and Merchant
The epistle dedicatory introduces a central metaphor: the poet as a bee who 'loved a thousand flowers' only to have his honey sold 'at so much the comb.' This image recurs in 'Faery Gold' and 'All Sung,' where the poet questions whether any song can remain unsullied by commerce. In 'To a Poet,' the speaker warns against selling one's soul for fame, while 'The Passionate Reader to his Poet' dramatizes the reader's desire for authentic connection. The collection's final poem, 'Corydon's Farewell to his Pipe,' abandons the pastoral instrument altogether, suggesting that the poet's role has become untenable. These poems form a quiet argument about the cost of making art in a world that values only its market price.
Domestic Interiors and Urban Spaces
Le Gallienne frequently sets his poems in confined, everyday spaces—a kitchen, a lodging house, a study—and then expands outward. 'Death in a London Lodging' is the most striking example: the poem's first half reports a death in flat, circumstantial detail ('She sat in the kitchen, you know'), while the second half dissects the reactions of other lodgers, from the 'first floor' who worries about his lunch to the 'medicals' who stifle laughter. The poem ends with the mundane sounds of dinner preparation, closing 'the waters of life' over the dead. Similarly, 'A Library in a Garden' juxtaposes indoor learning with outdoor growth, and 'Sunset in the City' turns a stock picturesque scene into a meditation on transience. These poems ground their philosophical concerns in specific, recognizable settings.
Rhyme, Repetition, and the Shifting Voice
Le Gallienne's formal choices often mirror his thematic concerns. In 'Old Love-Letters,' the rhyme scheme enacts a kind of burial: the dead lily of past love is 'bury these deep round the roots, for so / In soil of old dreams do the new dreams grow.' The poem's circular structure—ending where it began—suggests that closure is never complete. In 'Death in a London Lodging,' the speaker's parenthetical asides ('Or goes, I added for her') create a double voice, one that reports and one that judges. The collection also includes sonnets, ballads, and epigrams, but the most memorable poems are those where the form strains against the content, as in the deliberately awkward enjambments of 'The Lamp and the Star.' These technical choices reinforce the volume's central preoccupation: how to make something lasting from fleeting experience.
Readers approaching English Poems should attend to the way Le Gallienne embeds his doubts about poetry within the poems themselves. The collection does not offer a unified vision but rather a series of experiments in tone and form, from the earnest to the ironic. The recurring images of light, darkness, and decay are not merely decorative but serve as structural principles, organizing the poet's inquiry into what can be known and what must remain hidden. This is a book that rewards attention to its seams.
Years ago, I noticed how Le Gallienne’s lights flicker against decay, a tenderness for fleeting things that reminded me of another voice. Foliage holds that same quiet ache—not loudly, but in its pauses, like a shared secret between old friends. Foliage: Various Poems — Key Ideas to Explore whispers alongside it, patient and unassuming, as books do when they understand one another.
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