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Amy Levy

Amy Levy

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 airy tread?
For one strange moment I forgot
My only love was dead.

#English #Women

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Altre opere di Amy Levy...
The Old House, Grove Street, Salford, by Laurence Stephen Lowry
The Old House

In through the porch and up the si… Little is changed, I know so well… Here, the dead came to meet me; it… The dream was dreamed in unforgott… But who is this that hurries on be…
Epitaph. (On a Commonplace Person Who Died in Bed)

THIS is the end of him, here he… The dust in his throat, the worm i… The mould in his mouth, the turf o… This is the end of him, this is be… He will never lie on his couch awa…
London Poets

They trod the streets and squares… With weary hearts, a little while… When, thin and grey, the melanchol… Clung to the leafless branches ove… Or when the smoke-veiled sky grew…
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
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 pains,
In the Nower

To J. De P. Deep in the grass outstretched I… Motionless on the hill; Above me is a cloudless sky, Around me all is still:
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
In a Minor Key

(AN ECHO FROM A LARGE… 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.
A London Plane-Tree

Green is the plane-tree in the squ… The other trees are brown; They droop and pine for country ai… The plane-tree loves the town. Here from my garret-pane, I mark
Sonnet

Most wonderful and strange it seem… Who but a little time ago was tost High on the waves of passion and o… With aching heat and wildly throbb… Who peered into the darkness, deem…
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… ’Twas that he used to do. ”Here is the book wherein he read,
The Old Poet

I will be glad because it is the… I will forget the winter in my hea… Dead hopes and withered promise; a… A little joy from life ere life de… For spendthrift youth with passion…
On the Wye in May

Now is the perfect moment of the y… Half naked branches, half a mist o… Vivid and delicate the slopes appe… The cool, soft air is neither fier… And in the temperate sun we feel n…
The Sick Man and the Nightingale

(From Lenau.) So late, and yet a nightingale? Long since have dropp’d the blosso… The summer fields are ripening, And yet a sound of spring?
The Lost Friend

The people take the thing of co… They marvel not to see This strange, unnatural divorce Betwixt delight and me. I know the face of sorrow, and I…



Alto