Beauty poems
/ page 297 of 313 /
A New Theme
© George William Russell
I FAIN would leave the tender songs
I sang to you of old,
Thinking the oft-sung beauty wrongs
The magic never told.
The Iron Age
© George William Russell
The morning stars were heard to sing
When man towered golden in the prime.
One equal memory let us bring
Before we face our night in time.
Grant us one only evening star,
The iron ages avatar.
Recollection
© George William Russell
THROUGH the blue shadowy valley I hastened in a dream:
Flower rich the night, flower soft the air, a blue flower the stream
I hurried over before I came to the cabin door,
Where the orange flame-glow danced within on the beaten floor.
The Memory of Earth
© George William Russell
IN the wet dusk silver sweet,
Down the violet scented ways,
As I moved with quiet feet
I was met by mighty days.
In the Womb
© George William Russell
STILL rests the heavy share on the dark soil:
Upon the black mould thick the dew-damp lies:
The horse waits patient: from his lowly toil
The ploughboy to the morning lifts his eyes.
Twilight by the Cabin
© George William Russell
DUSK, a pearl-grey river, oer
Hill and vale puts out the day
What do you wonder at, asthore,
Whats away in yonder grey?
The Fountain of Shadowy Beauty
© George William Russell
I WOULD I could weave in
The colour, the wonder,
The song I conceive in
My heart while I ponder,
A Midnight Meditation
© George William Russell
HOW often have I said,
We may not grieve for the immortal dead.
And now, poor blenchèd heart,
Thy ruddy hues all tremulous depart.
Transformations
© George William Russell
WHAT miracle was it that made this grey Rathgar
Seem holy earth, a leaping-place from star to star?
I know I strode along grey streets disconsolate,
Seeing nowhere a glimmer of the Glittering Gate,
Ordeal
© George William Russell
LOVE and pity are pleading with me this hour.
What is this voice that stays me forbidding to yield,
Offering beauty, love, and immortal power,
Æons away in some far-off heavenly field?
The Voice of the Waters
© George William Russell
WHERE the Greyhound River windeth through a loneliness so deep,
Scarce a wild fowl shakes the quiet that the purple boglands keep,
Only God exults in silence over fields no man may reap.
Babylon
© George William Russell
THE BLUE dusk ran between the streets: my love was winged within my mind,
It left to-day and yesterday and thrice a thousand years behind.
To-day was past and dead for me, for from to-day my feet had run
Through thrice a thousand years to walk the ways of ancient Babylon.
The Spirit of the Gay
© George William Russell
WITH the glamour of the Gay
How you made our hearts to flame;
Gave each life some airy aim:
Ever round you seemed to play
Sunlight from some inner day.
Om
© George William Russell
FAINT grew the yellow buds of light
Far flickering beyond the snows,
As leaning oer the shadowy white
Morn glimmered like a pale primrose.
The Burning-Glass
© George William Russell
A SHAFT of fire that falls like dew,
And melts and maddens all my blood,
From out thy spirit flashes through
The burning-glass of womanhood.
Children of Lir
© George William Russell
WE woke from our sleep in the bosom where cradled together we lay:
The love of the dark hidden Father went with us upon our way.
And gay was the breath in our being, and never a sorrow or fear
Was on us as, singing together, we flew from the infinite Lir.
Janus
© George William Russell
IMAGE of beauty, when I gaze on thee,
Trembling I waken to a mystery,
How through one door we go to life or death
By spirit kindled or the sensual breath.
The Garden of God
© George William Russell
WITHIN the iron cities
One walked unknown for years,
In his heart the pity of pities
That grew for human tears.
The Earth
© George William Russell
THEY tell me that the earth is still the same
Although the Red Branch now is but a name,
That yonder peasant lifting up his eyes
Can see the marvel of the morning rise,
The wonder Deirdre gazed on when she came.
Illusion
© George William Russell
WHAT is the love of shadowy lips
That know not what they seek or press,
From whom the lure for ever slips
And fails their phantom tenderness?
