Amy Levy
A Farewell
(After Heine.) The sad rain falls from Heaven, A sad bird pipes and sings ; I am sitting here at my window And watching the spires of “King’s.” O fairest of all fair places,
The Promise of Sleep
Put the sweet thoughts from out thy mind, The dreams from out thy breast; No joy for thee but thou shalt find Thy rest All day I could not work for woe, I could
The Two Terrors
Two terrors fright my soul by night and day: The first is Life, and with her come the years; A weary, winding train of maidens they, With forward-fronting eyes, too sad for tears; Upon
The Dream
Believe me, this was true last night, Tho’ it is false to-day. A. M. F. Robinson. A fair dream to my chamber flew: Such a crowd of folk that stirred, Jested, fluttered; only you,
A March Day in London
The east wind blows in the street to-day; The sky is blue, yet the town looks grey. ‘Tis the wind of ice, the wind of fire, Of cold despair and of hot desire, Which
Sonnet
Most wonderful and strange it seems, that I Who but a little time ago was tost High on the waves of passion and of pain, With aching heat and wildly throbbing brain, Who peered
At a Dinner Party
With fruit and flowers the board is deckt, The wine and laughter flow; I’ll not complain could one expect So dull a world to know? You look across the fruit and flowers, My glance
Sinfonia Eroica
(To Sylvia.) My Love, my Love, it was a day in June, A mellow, drowsy, golden afternoon; And all the eager people thronging came To that great hall, drawn by the magic name Of
Twilight
So Mary died last night! To-day The news has travelled here. And Robert died at Michaelmas, And Walter died last year. I went at sunset up the lane, I lingered by the stile; I
To Vernon Lee
On Bellosguardo, when the year was young, We wandered, seeking for the daffodil And dark anemone, whose purples fill The peasant’s plot, between the corn-shoots sprung. Over the grey, low wall the olive flung
June
Last June I saw your face three times; Three times I touched your hand; Now, as before, May month is o’er, And June is in the land. O many Junes shall come and go,
Christopher Found
I. At last; so this is you, my dear! How should I guess to find you here? So long, so long, I sought in vain In many cities, many lands, With straining eyes and
Felo de Se
With Apologies to Mr. Swinburne. For repose I have sighed and have struggled ; have sigh’d and have struggled in vain; I am held in the Circle of Being and caught in the Circle
Run to Death
A True Incident of Pre-Revolutionary French History. Now the lovely autumn morning breathes its freshness in earth’s face, In the crowned castle courtyard the blithe horn proclaims the chase; And the ladies on the
To Clementina Black
More blest than was of old Diogenes, I have not held my lantern up in vain. Not mine, at least, this evil to complain: “There is none honest among all of these.” Our hopes
Between the Showers
Between the showers I went my way, The glistening street was bright with flowers; It seemed that March had turned to May Between the showers. Above the shining roofs and towers The blue broke
The Sequel to a Reminiscence
Not in the street and not in the square, The street and square where you went and came; With shuttered casement your house stands bare, Men hush their voice when they speak your name.
A Dirge
“Mein Herz, mein Herz ist traurig Doch lustig leuchtet der Mai” There’s May amid the meadows, There’s May amid the trees; Her May-time note the cuckoo Sends forth upon the breeze. Above the rippling
Ralph to Mary
Love, you have led me to the strand, Here, where the stilly, sunset sea, Ever receding silently, Lays bare a shining stretch of sand; Which, as we tread, in waving line, Sinks softly ‘neath
Youth and Love
What does youth know of love? Little enough, I trow! He plucks the myrtle for his brow, For his forehead the rose. Nay, but of love It is not youth who knows.
A Greek Girl
I may not weep, not weep, and he is dead. A weary, weary weight of tears unshed Through the long day in my sad heart I bear; The horrid sun with all unpitying glare
Cambridge in the Long
Where drowsy sound of college-chimes Across the air is blown, And drowsy fragrance of the limes, I lie and dream alone. A dazzling radiance reigns o’er all O’er gardens densely green, O’er old grey
A Prayer
Since that I may not have Love on this side the grave, Let me imagine Love. Since not mine is the bliss Of ‘claspt hands and lips that kiss,’ Let me in dreams it
The End of the Day
To B. T. Dead-tired, dog-tired, as the vivid day Fails and slackens and fades away. The sky that was so blue before With sudden clouds is shrouded o’er. Swiftly, stilly the mists uprise, Till
The First Extra
A Waltz Song. O sway, and swing, and sway, And swing, and sway, and swing! Ah me, what bliss like unto this, Can days and daylight bring? A rose beneath your feet Has fallen
Translated from Geibel
O say, thou wild, thou oft deceived heart, What mean these noisy throbbings in my breast? After thy long, unutterable woe Wouldst thou not rest? Fall’n from Life’s tree the sweet rose-blossom lies, And
In a Minor Key
(AN ECHO FROM A LARGER LYRE.) That was love that I had before Years ago, when my heart was young; Ev’ry smile was a gem you wore; Ev’ry word was a sweet song sung.
In the Nower
To J. De P. Deep in the grass outstretched I lie, Motionless on the hill; Above me is a cloudless sky, Around me all is still: There is no breath, no sound, no stir,
Contradictions
Now, even, I cannot think it true, My friend, that there is no more you. Almost as soon were no more I, Which were, of course, absurdity! Your place is bare, you are not
Ballade of an Omnibus
“To see my love suffices me.” Ballades in Blue China. Some men to carriages aspire; On some the costly hansoms wait; Some seek a fly, on job or hire; Some mount the trotting steed,
On the Threshold
O God, my dream! I dreamed that you were dead; Your mother hung above the couch and wept Whereon you lay all white, and garlanded With blooms of waxen whiteness. I had crept Up
To Death
(From Lenau.) If within my heart there’s mould, If the flame of Poesy And the flame of Love grow cold, Slay my body utterly. Swiftly, pause not nor delay; Let not my life’s field
Captivity
The lion remembers the forest, The lion in chains; To the bird that is captive a vision Of woodland remains. One strains with his strength at the fetter, In impotent rage; One flutters in
To Sylvia
“O love, lean thou thy cheek to mine, And let the tears together flow” Such was the song you sang to me Once, long ago. Such was the song you sang; and yet (O
Impotens
If I were a woman of old, What prayers I would pray for you, dear; My pitiful tribute behold Not a prayer, but a tear. The pitiless order of things, Whose laws we may
The Lost Friend
The people take the thing of course, They marvel not to see This strange, unnatural divorce Betwixt delight and me. I know the face of sorrow, and I know Her voice with all its
London Poets
(In Memoriam.) They trod the streets and squares where now I tread, With weary hearts, a little while ago; When, thin and grey, the melancholy snow Clung to the leafless branches overhead; Or when
A London Plane-Tree
Green is the plane-tree in the square, The other trees are brown; They droop and pine for country air; The plane-tree loves the town. Here from my garret-pane, I mark The plane-tree bud and
In the Mile End Road
How like her! But ’tis she herself, Comes up the crowded street, How little did I think, the morn, My only love to meet! Whose else that motion and that mien? Whose else that
In the Black Forest
I lay beneath the pine trees, And looked aloft, where, through The dusky, clustered tree-tops, Gleamed rent, gay rifts of blue. I shut my eyes, and a fancy Fluttered my sense around: “I lie
New Love, New Life
I. She, who so long has lain Stone-stiff with folded wings, Within my heart again The brown bird wakes and sings. Brown nightingale, whose strain Is heard by day, by night, She sings of
The Old Poet
I will be glad because it is the Spring; I will forget the winter in my heart Dead hopes and withered promise; and will wring A little joy from life ere life depart. For
Lohengrin
Back to the mystic shore beyond the main The mystic craft has sped, and left no trace. Ah, nevermore may she behold his face, Nor touch his hand, nor hear his voice again! With
At Dawn
In the night I dreamed of you; All the place was filled With your presence; in my heart The strife was stilled. All night I have dreamed of you; Now the morn is grey.
Straw in the Street
Straw in the street where I pass to-day Dulls the sound of the wheels and feet. ‘Tis for a failing life they lay Straw in the street. Here, where the pulses of London beat,
To E
The mountains in fantastic lines Sweep, blue-white, to the sky, which shines Blue as blue gems; athwart the pines The lake gleams blue. We three were here, three years gone by; Our Poet, with
A Wall Flower
I lounge in the doorway and languish in vain While Tom, Dick and Harry are dancing with Jane My spirit rises to the music’s beat; There is a leaden fiend lurks in my feet!
The Last Judgment
With beating heart and lagging feet, Lord, I approach the Judgment-seat. All bring hither the fruits of toil, Measures of wheat and measures of oil; Gold and jewels and precious wine; No hands bare
The Old House
In through the porch and up the silent stair; Little is changed, I know so well the ways; Here, the dead came to meet me; it was there The dream was dreamed in unforgotten
In the Night
Cruel? I think there never was a cheating More cruel, thro’ all the weary days than this! This is no dream, my heart kept on repeating, But sober certainty of waking bliss. Dreams? O,
The Sick Man and the Nightingale
(From Lenau.) So late, and yet a nightingale? Long since have dropp’d the blossoms pale, The summer fields are ripening, And yet a sound of spring? O tell me, didst thou come to hear,
A Cross-Road Epitaph
“Am Kreuzweg wird begraben Wer selber brachte sich um.” When first the world grew dark to me I call’d on God, yet came not he. Whereon, as wearier wax’d my lot, On Love I
The Village Garden
To E. M. S. Here, where your garden fenced about and still is, Here, where the unmoved summer air is sweet With mixed delight of lavender and lilies, Dreaming I linger in the noontide
The Birch-Tree at Loschwitz
At Loschwitz above the city The air is sunny and chill; The birch-trees and the pine-trees Grow thick upon the hill. Lone and tall, with silver stem, A birch-tree stands apart; The passionate wind
A Reminiscence
It is so long gone by, and yet How clearly now I see it all! The glimmer of your cigarette, The little chamber, narrow and tall. Perseus; your picture in its frame; (How near
London in July
What ails my senses thus to cheat? What is it ails the place, That all the people in the street Should wear one woman’s face? The London trees are dusty-brown Beneath the summer sky;
A June-Tide Echo
(After a Richter Concert.) In the long, sad time, when the sky was grey, And the keen blast blew through the city drear, When delight had fled from the night and the day, My
Last Words
Dead! all’s done with! R. Browning. These blossoms that I bring, This song that here I sing, These tears that now I shed, I give unto the dead. There is no more to be
Ballade of a Special Edition
He comes; I hear him up the street Bird of ill omen, flapping wide The pinion of a printed sheet, His hoarse note scares the eventide. Of slaughter, theft, and suicide He is the
A Minor Poet
“What should such fellows as I do, Crawling between earth and heaven?” Here is the phial; here I turn the key Sharp in the lock. Click! there’s no doubt it turned. This is the
Borderland
Am I waking, am I sleeping? As the first faint dawn comes creeping Thro’ the pane, I am aware Of an unseen presence hovering, Round, above, in the dusky air: A downy bird, with
Philosophy
Ere all the world had grown so drear, When I was young and you were here, ‘Mid summer roses in summer weather, What pleasant times we’ve had together! We were not Phyllis, simple-sweet, And
Oh, Is It Love?
O is it Love or is it Fame, This thing for which I sigh? Or has it then no earthly name For men to call it by? I know not what can ease my
Out of Town
Out of town the sky was bright and blue, Never fog-cloud, lowering, thick, was seen to frown; Nature dons a garb of gayer hue, Out of town. Spotless lay the snow on field and
On the Wye in May
Now is the perfect moment of the year. Half naked branches, half a mist of green, Vivid and delicate the slopes appear; The cool, soft air is neither fierce nor keen, And in the
The Piano-Organ
My student-lamp is lighted, The books and papers are spread; A sound comes floating upwards, Chasing the thoughts from my head. I open the garret window, Let the music in and the moon; See
Magdalen
All things I can endure, save one. The bare, blank room where is no sun; The parcelled hours; the pallet hard; The dreary faces here within; The outer women’s cold regard; The Pastor’s iterated
To a Dead Poet
I knew not if to laugh or weep; They sat and talked of you “‘Twas here he sat; ’twas this he said! ‘Twas that he used to do. “Here is the book wherein he