Amy Levy
(1861-1889)
A London Plane-Tree
A London Plane-TreeLondon in July
A March Day in London
Ballade of an Omnibus
Ballade of a Special Edition
Roundels
Straw in the Street
Between the Showers
Out of Town
The Piano-Organ
London Poets
The Village Garden
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 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.
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 ;
My love, she dwells in London town,
Nor leaves it in July.
O various and intricate maze,
Wide waste of square and street ;
Where, missing through unnumbered days,
We twain at last may meet !
And who cries out on crowd and mart ?
Who prates of stream and sea ?
The summer in the city's heart--
That is enough for me.
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 chills the flesh to aches and pains,
And sends a fever through all the veins.
From end to end, with aimless feet,
All day long have I paced the street.
My limbs are weary, but in my breast
Stirs the goad of a mad unrest.
I would give anything to stay
The little wheel that turns in my brain ;
The little wheel that turns all day,
That turns all night with might and main.
What is the thing I fear, and why ?
Nay, but the world is all awry--
The wind's in the east, the sun's in the sky.
The gas-lamps gleam in a golden line ;
The ruby lights of the hansoms shine,
Glance, and flicker like fire-flies bright ;
The wind has fallen with the night,
And once again the town seems fair
Thwart the mist that hangs i' the air.
And o'er, at last, my spirit steals
A weary peace ; peace that conceals
Within its inner depths the grain
Of hopes that yet shall flower again.
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, 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
Croesus 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.
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 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.
Roundels
Straw in the Street
STRAW in the street where I pass to-dayDulls 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,
Someone strives with the Presence grey ;
Ah, is it victory or defeat ?
The hurrying people go their way,
Pause and jostle and pass and greet ;
For life, for death, are they treading, say
Straw in the street ?
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 forth athwart the grey ;
Birds carolled in their leafless bowers.
Hither and tither, swift and gay,
The people chased the changeful hours ;
And you, you passed and smiled that day,
Between the showers.
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 down,
Pure and keen the air above it blew ;
All wore peace and beauty for a crown.
London sky, marred by smoke, veiled from view,
London snow, trodden thin, dingy brown,
Whence that strange unrest at thoughts of you
Out of town ?
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 the woman grin for coppers,
While the man grinds out the tune.
Grind me a dirge or a requiem,
Or a funeral-march sad and slow,
But not, O not, that waltz tune
I heard so long ago.
I stand upright by the window,
The moonlight streams in wan :--
O God ! with its changeless rise and fall
The tune twirls on and on.
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 the smoke-veiled sky grew stormy-red
In autumn ; with a re-arisen woe
Wrestled, what time the passionate spring winds blow ;
And paced scorched stones in summer :--they are dead.
The sorrow of their souls to them did seem
As real as mine to me, as permanent.
To-day, it is the shadow of a dream,
The half-forgotten breath of breezes spent.
So shall another soothe his woe supreme--
"No more he comes, who this way came and went."
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 heat.
Of many summers are the trees recorders,
The turf a carpet many summers wove ;
Old-fashioned blossoms cluster in the borders,
Love-in-a-mist and crimson-hearted clove.
All breathes of peace and sunshine in the present,
All tells of bygone peace and bygone sun,
Of fruitful years accomplished, budding, crescent,
Of gentle seasons passing one by one.
Fain would I bide, but ever in the distance
A ceaseless voice is sounding clear and low ;--
The city calls me with her old persistence,
The city calls me--I arise and go.
Of gentler souls this fragrant peace is guerdon ;
For me, the roar and hurry of the town,
Wherein more lightly seems to press the burden
Of individual life that weighs me down.
I leave your garden to the happier comers
For whom its silent sweets are anodyne.
Shall I return? Who knows, in other summers
The peace my spirit longs for may be mine ?