Amy Levy

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 herald and the friend; Now he vociferates with pride-- A double murder in Mile End!

A hanging to his soul is sweet; His gloating fancy's fain to bide Where human-freighted vessels meet, And misdirected trains collide. With Shocking Accidents supplied, He tramps the town from end to end. How often have we heard it cried-- A double murder in Mile End.

War loves he; victory or defeat, So there be loss on either side. His tale of horrors incomplete, Imagination's aid is tried. Since no distinguished man has died, And since the Fates, relenting, send No great catastrophe, he's spied This double murder in Mile End.

Fiend, get thee gone! no more repeat Those sounds which do mine ears offend. It is apocryphal, you cheat, Your double murder in Mile End.

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! To move unto your motion, Love, were sweet.

Somewhere, I think, some other where, not here, In other ages, on another sphere, I danced with you, and you with me, my dear.

In perfect motion did our bodies sway, To perfect music that was heard alway; Woe's me, that am so dull of foot to-day!

To move unto your motion, Love, were sweet; My spirit rises to the music's beat-- But, ah, the leaden demon in my feet!

"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, elate. I envy not the rich and great, A wandering minstrel, poor and free, I am contented with my fate -- An omnibus suffices me.

In winter days of rain and mire I find within a corner strait; The 'busmen know me and my lyre From Brompton to the Bull-and-Gate. When summer comes, I mount in state The topmost summit, whence I see Crœsus look up, compassionate -- An omnibus suffices me.

I mark, untroubled by desire, Lucullus' phaeton and its freight. The scene whereof I cannot tire, The human tale of love and hate, The city pageant, early and late Unfolds itself, rolls by, to be A pleasure deep and delicate. An omnibus suffices me.

Princess, your splendour you require, I, my simplicity; agree Neither to rate lower nor higher. An omnibus suffices me.

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 prove. What tho' as the years roll No soul shall melt to my soul, Let me conceive such thing; Tho' never shall entwine Loving arms around mine Let dreams caresses bring. To live--it is my doom-- Lonely as in a tomb, This cross on me was laid; My God, I know not why; Here in the dark I lie, Lonely, yet not afraid. It has seemed good to Thee Still to withhold the key Which opes the way to men; I am shut in alone, I make not any moan, Thy ways are past my ken. Yet grant me this, to find The sweetness in my mind Which I must still forego; Great God which art above, Grant me to image Love,-- The bliss without the woe.

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 of spring-time Stirs in its leafy heart.

I lean against the birch-tree, My arms around it twine; It pulses, and leaps, and quivers, Like a human heart to mine.

One moment I stand, then sudden Let loose mine arms that cling: O God! the lonely hillside, The passionate wind of spring!

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 blow, Shed her recuperative bark, And spread her shade below.

Among her branches, in and out, The city breezes play; The dun fog wraps her round about; Above, the smoke curls grey.

Others the country take for choice, And hold the town in scorn; But she has listened to the voice On city breezes borne.

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 here dead and buried, And this is churchyard ground.

"I am at rest for ever; Ended the stress and strife." Straight I fell to and sorrowed For the pitiful past life.

Right wronged, and knowledge wasted; Wise labour spurned for ease; The sloth and the sin and the failure; Did I grow sad for these?

They had made me sad so often; Not now they made me sad; My heart was full of sorrow For joy it never had.

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 varied cadences; Which way she turns and treads; how at her ease Things fit her dreary largess to bestow.

Where sorrow long abides, some be that grow To hold her dear, but I am not of these; Joy is my friend, not sorrow; by strange seas, In some far land we wandered, long ago.

O faith, long tried, that knows no faltering! O vanished treasure of her hands and face!-- Beloved--to whose memory I cling, Unmoved within my heart she holds her place.

And never shall I hail that other "friend," Who yet shall dog my footsteps to the end.