Quotes from Richard Le Gallienne

We have, of course, long since ceased to think of Nature as the sympathetic mirror of our moods, or to imagine that she has any concern with the temporal affairs of man.

There's too much beauty upon this earth For lonely men to bear.

Perhaps we too seldom reflect how much the life of Nature is one with the life of man, how unimportant or indeed merely seeming, the difference between them.

There is something mean in human nature that prefers to think evil, that gives a willing ear and a ready welcome to calumny, a sort of jealousy of goodness and greatness and things of good report.

Stay the course, light a star, Change the world where'er you are.

We also maintain - again with perfect truth - that mystery is more than half of beauty, the element of strangeness that stirs the senses through the imagination.

Nature is forever arriving and forever departing, forever approaching, forever vanishing; but in her vanishings there seems to be ever the waving of a hand, in all her partings a promise of meetings farther along the road.

Modern science, then, so far from being an enemy of romance, is seen on every hand to be its sympathetic and resourceful friend, its swift and irresistible helper in its serious need, and an indulgent minister to its lighter fancies.

The soul is but senses catching fire, Marvellous music of the body's lyre, - The angel senses are the silver strings Stirred by the breath of some unknown desire.

Into this life of cruel wonder sent, Without a word to tell us what it meant, Sent back again without a reason why - Birth, life, and death - 'twas all astonishment.

A critic is a man created to praise greater men than himself, but he is never able to find them.

I meant to do my work today but . . .

Good friends, beware! the only life we know Flies from us like an arrow from the bow, The caravan of life is moving by, Quick! to your places in the passing show.

To all of us the thought of heaven is dear - Why not be sure of it and make it here? No doubt there is a heaven yonder too, But 'tis so far away - and you are near. Men talk of heaven, - there is no heaven but here; Men talk of hell, - there is no hell but here; Men of hereafters talk, and future lives, O love, there is no other life - but here.

And do you think that unto such as you, A maggot-minded, starved, fanatic crew, God gave the Secret, and denied it me? - Well, well, what matters it! believe that too.

She's somewhere in the sunlight strong, / Her tears are in the falling rain, / She calls me in the wind's soft song, / And with the flowers she comes again.

Were I a woman, I would all day long Sing my own beauty in some holy song, Bend low before it, hushed and half afraid, And say 'I am a woman' all day long.

So I be written in the Book of Love, I have no care about that book above; Erase my name, or write it, as you please - So I be written in the Book of Love.

If in this shadowland of life thou hast Found one true heart to love thee, hold it fast; Love it again, give all to keep it thine, For love like nothing in the world can last.

Like to a maid who exquisitely turns A promising face to him who, waiting, burns In hell to hear her answer - so the world Tricks all, and hints what no man ever learns.

What long-dead face makes here the grass so green? On what earth-buried bosom do we lean? Ah! love, when we in turn are grass and flowers, By what kind eyes to come shall we be seen?

Some say we came God's purpose to fulfil - Faith a poor purpose then, if so you will; Sport for the heavenly huntsmen, others say, - Sorry the sport, methinks, and poor the skill.

Would you seek beauty, seek it underground; Would you find strength - the strong are underground; And would you next year seek my love and me, Who knows but you must seek us - underground?

There are really no dull subjects. There are only dull writers.