The Project Gutenberg eBook of A London plane-tree, by Amy Levy.

and other Verse
by
AMY LEVY

CAMEO
SERIES

T. FISHER UNWIN PATERNOSTER SQ.
LONDON, E.C. MDCCCLXXXIX

The proofs of this volume were corrected by the Author about a week before her death.

To Clementina Black.

Contents.

Illustrations.

A London Plane-Tree.

London in July.

A March Day in London.

T HE 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 {20}
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.
{21}

Ballade of an Omnibus.

S OME 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. {22}

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.
{23}

Ballade of a Special Edition.

H E 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. {24}

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.
{25}

Straw in the Street.

Between the Showers.

Out of Town.

The Piano-Organ.

London Poets.

The Village Garden.

H ERE, 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. {31}

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?
{33} {32}

Love, Dreams, & Death.

New Love, New Life.

II.

Impotens.

Youth and Love.

The Dream.

A FAIR dream to my chamber flew:
Such a crowd of folk that stirred,
Jested, fluttered; only you,
You alone of all that band,
Calm and silent, spake no word.
Only once you neared my place,
And your hand one moment’s space
Sought the fingers of my hand;
Your eyes flashed to mine; I knew
All was well between us two.
* * * * *
On from dream to dream I past,
But the first sweet vision cast
Mystic radiance o’er the last.
* * * * *
When I woke the pale night lay
Still, expectant of the day;
All about the chamber hung
Tender shade of twilight gloom;
The fair dream hovered round me, clung
To my thought like faint perfume:—
Like sweet odours, such as cling
To the void flask, which erst encloses
Attar of rose; or the pale string
Of amber which has lain with roses.
{39}

On the Threshold.

The Birch-Tree at Loschwitz.

In the Night.

Borderland.

At Dawn.

Last Words.

June.

A Reminiscence.

The Sequel to “A Reminiscence.”

N OT 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.

I, too, can play at the vain pretence,
Can feign you dead; while a voice sounds clear
In the inmost depths of my heart: Go hence,
Go, find your friend who is far from here.

Not here, but somewhere where I can reach!
Can a man with motion, hearing and sight,
And a thought that answered my thought and speech,
Be utterly lost and vanished quite? {49}

Whose hand was warm in my hand last week?...
My heart beat fast as I neared the gate—
Was it this I had come to seek,
“A stone that stared with your name and date;”

A hideous, turfless, fresh-made mound;
A silence more cold than the wind that blew?
What had I lost, and what had I found?
My flowers that mocked me fell to the ground—
Then, and then only, my spirit knew.
{50}

In the Mile End Road.

Contradictions.

Twilight.

In September.

Moods and Thoughts.

The Old House.

I N 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 days.

But who is this that hurries on before,
A flitting shade the brooding shades among?—
She turned,—I saw her face,—O God, it wore
The face I used to wear when I was young!

I thought my spirit and my heart were tamed
To deadness; dead the pangs that agonise.
The old grief springs to choke me,—I am shamed
Before that little ghost with eager eyes.

O turn away, let her not see, not know!
How should she bear it, how should understand?
O hasten down the stairway, haste and go,
And leave her dreaming in the silent land.
{58}

Lohengrin.

Alma Mater.

T O-DAY in Florence all the air
Is soft with spring, with sunlight fair;
In the tall street gay folks are met;
Duomo and Tower gleam overhead,
Like jewels in the city set,
Fair-hued and many-faceted.
Against the old grey stones are piled
February violets, pale and sweet,
Whose scent of earth in woodland wild
Is wafted up and down the street.
The city’s heart is glad; my own
Sits lightly on its bosom’s throne .
* * * * * *
Why is it that I see to-day,
Imaged as clear as in a dream,
A little city far away,
A churlish sky, a sluggish stream, {60}
Tall clust’ring trees and gardens fair,
Dark birds that circle in the air,
Grey towers and fanes; on either hand,
Stretches of wind-swept meadow-land?
* * * * * *
Oh, who can sound the human breast?
And this strange truth must be confessed;
That city do I love the best
Wherein my heart was heaviest!
{61}

In the Black Forest.

Captivity.

T HE 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 flights of a moment,
And beats at the cage.

If the lion were loosed from the fetter,
To wander again;
He would seek the wide silence and shadow
Of his jungle in vain.

He would rage in his fury, destroying;
Let him rage, let him roam!
Shall he traverse the pitiless mountain,
Or swim through the foam?

If they opened the cage and the casement,
And the bird flew away;
He would come back at evening, heartbroken,
A captive for aye. {63}

Would come if his kindred had spared him,
Free birds from afar—
There was wrought what is stronger than iron
In fetter and bar.

I cannot remember my country,
The land whence I came;
Whence they brought me and chained me and made me
Nor wild thing nor tame.

This only I know of my country,
This only repeat:—
It was free as the forest, and sweeter
Than woodland retreat.

When the chain shall at last be broken,
The window set wide;
And I step in the largeness and freedom
Of sunlight outside;

Shall I wander in vain for my country?
Shall I seek and not find?
Shall I cry for the bars that encage me,
The fetters that bind?
{64}

The Two Terrors.

The Promise of Sleep.

The Last Judgment.

W ITH 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 like these hands of mine.
The treasure I have nor weighs nor gleams:
Lord, I can bring you only dreams.

In days of spring, when my blood ran high,
I lay in the grass and looked at the sky,
And dreamed that my love lay by my side—
My love was false, and then she died.

All the heat of the summer through,
I dreamed she lived, that her heart was true.
Throughout the hours of the day I slept,
But woke in the night, at times, and wept. {67}

The nights and days, they went and came,
I lay in shadow and dreamed of fame;
And heard men passing the lonely place,
Who marked me not and my hidden face.

My strength waxed faint, my hair grew grey;
Nothing but dreams by night and day.
Some men sicken, with wine and food;
I starved on dreams, and found them good.
* * * * * *
This is the tale I have to tell—
Show the fellow the way to hell .
{68}

Felo de Se.

F OR 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 of Pain.
I was wan and weary with life; my sick soul yearned for death;
I was weary of women and war and the sea and the wind’s wild breath;
I cull’d sweet poppies and crush’d them, the blood ran rich and red:—
And I cast it in crystal chalice and drank of it till I was dead.
And the mould of the man was mute, pulseless in ev’ry part,
The long limbs lay on the sand with an eagle eating the heart. {69}
Repose for the rotting head and peace for the putrid breast,
But for that which is “I” indeed the gods have decreed no rest;
No rest but an endless aching, a sorrow which grows amain:—
I am caught in the Circle of Being and held in the Circle of Pain.
Bitter indeed is Life, and bitter of Life the breath,
But give me life and its ways and its men, if this be Death.
Wearied I once of the Sun and the voices which clamour’d around:
Give them me back—in the sightless depths there is neither light nor sound.
Sick is my soul, and sad and feeble and faint as it felt
When (far, dim day) in the fair flesh-fane of the body it dwelt.
But then I could run to the shore, weeping and weary and weak;
See the waves’ blue sheen and feel the breath of the breeze on my cheek:
Could wail with the wailing wind; strike sharply the hands in despair; {70}
Could shriek with the shrieking blast, grow frenzied and tear the hair;
Could fight fierce fights with the foe or clutch at a human hand;
And weary could lie at length on the soft, sweet, saffron sand....
I have neither a voice nor hands, nor any friend nor a foe;
I am I—just a Pulse of Pain—I am I, that is all I know.
For Life, and the sickness of Life, and Death and desire to die;—
They have passed away like the smoke, here is nothing but Pain and I.
{71}

The Lost Friend.

Cambridge in the Long.

W HERE 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 bridges and the small,
Slow flood which slides between.

This is the place; it is not strange,
But known of old and dear.—
What went I forth to seek? The change
Is mine; why am I here?

Alas, in vain I turned away,
I fled the town in vain;
The strenuous life of yesterday
Calleth me back again. {73}

And was it peace I came to seek?
Yet here, where memories throng,
Ev’n here, I know the past is weak,
I know the present strong.

This drowsy fragrance, silent heat,
Suit not my present mind,
Whose eager thought goes out to meet
The life it left behind.

Spirit with sky to change; such hope,
An idle one we know;
Unship the oars, make loose the rope,
Push off the boat and go....

Ah, would what binds me could have been
Thus loosened at a touch!
This pain of living is too keen,
Of loving, is too much.
{74}

To Vernon Lee.

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 spendthrift youth with passion-blinded eyes,
Stays not to see how woods and fields are bright;
He hears the phantom voices call, he flies
Upon the track of some unknown delight.

To him the tender glory of the May,
White wonder of the blossom, and the clear,
Soft green of leaves that opened yesterday,
This only say: Forward, my friend, not here!

They breathe no other messages than this,
They have no other meaning for his heart;
Unto his troubled sense they tell of bliss,
Which make, themselves, of bliss the better part. {76}

Yea, joy is near him, tho’ he does not know;
Her unregarded shape is at his side,
Her unheard voice is whispering clear and low,
Whom, resting never, seeks he far and wide.

So once it was with us, my heart! To-day
We will be glad because the leaves are green,
Because the fields are fair and soft with May,
Nor think on squandered springtimes that have been.
{77}

On the Wye in May.

Oh, is it Love?

In the Nower.

The End of the Day.

D EAD-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 blurred and grey the landscape lies.
* * * * * *
All day we have plied the oar; all day
Eager and keen have said our say
On life and death, on love and art,
On good or ill at Nature’s heart.
Now, grown so tired, we scarce can lift
The lazy oars, but onward drift.
And the silence is only stirred
Here and there by a broken word.
* * * * * *
O, sweeter far than strain and stress
Is the slow, creeping weariness. {81}
And better far than thought I find
The drowsy blankness of the mind.
More than all joys of soul or sense
Is this divine indifference;
Where grief a shadow grows to be,
And peace a possibility.
{82}

Odds and Ends.

A Wall Flower.

The First Extra.

At a Dinner Party.

Philosophy.

E RE 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 Corydon; we did not meet
By brook or meadow, but among
A Philistine and flippant throng

Which much we scorned; (less rigorous
It had no scorn at all for us!)
How many an eve of sweet July,
Heedless of Mrs. Grundy’s eye,

We’ve scaled the stairway’s topmost height,
And sat there talking half the night;
And, gazing on the crowd below,
Thanked Fate and Heaven that made us so; {89} —

To hold the pure delights of brain
Above light loves and sweet champagne.
For, you and I, we did eschew
The egoistic “I” and “you;”

And all our observations ran
On Art and Letters, Life and Man.
Proudly we sat, we two, on high,
Throned in our Objectivity;

Scarce friends, not lovers (each avers),
But sexless, safe Philosophers.
* * * * * *
Dear Friend, you must not deem me light
If, as I lie and muse to-night,
I give a smile and not a sigh
To thoughts of our Philosophy.
{90}

A Game of Lawn Tennis.

W HAT wonder that I should be dreaming
Out here in the garden to-day?
The light through the leaves is streaming,—
Paulina cries, “Play!”

The birds to each other are calling,
The freshly-cut grasses smell sweet;
To Teddy’s dismay, comes falling
The ball at my feet.

“ Your stroke should be over, not under! ”
“ But that’s such a difficult way! ”
The place is a springtide wonder
Of lilac and may;

Of lilac, and may, and laburnum,
Of blossom,— We’er losing the set!
“Those volleys of Jenny’s,—return them;
“Stand close to the net!”
* * * * * *
{91} You are so fond of the Maytime,
My friend, far away;
Small wonder that I should be dreaming
Of you in the garden to-day.
{92}

To E.

T HE 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 fine-frenzied eye,
You, steeped in learned lore, and I,
A poet too.

Our Poet brought us books and flowers,
He read us Faust ; he talked for hours
Philosophy (sad Schopenhauer’s),
Beneath the trees:

And do you mind that sunny day,
When he, as on the sward he lay,
Told of Lassalle who bore away
The false Louise? {93}

Thrice-favoured bard! to him alone
That green and snug retreat was shown,
Where to the vulgar herd unknown,
Our pens we plied.

(For, in those distant days, it seems,
We cherished sundry idle dreams,
And with our flowing foolscap reams
The Fates defied.)

And after, when the day was gone,
And the hushed, silver night came on,
He showed us where the glow-worm shone;—
We stooped to see.

There, too, by yonder moon we swore
Platonic friendship o’er and o’er;
No folk, we deemed, had been before
So wise and free.
* * * * * * *
And do I sigh or smile to-day?
Dead love or dead ambition, say,
Which mourn we most? Not much we weigh
Platonic friends. {94}

On you the sun is shining free;
Our Poet sleeps in Italy,
Beneath an alien sod; on me
The cloud descends.
{95}

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BY THE SAME AUTHOR.
A MINOR POET, AND OTHER VERSE.
THE ROMANCE OF A SHOP ( A Novel ).
REUBEN SACHS ( A Novel ).

IN SAME SERIES.
1. The Lady from the Sea. By Henrik Ibsen .
3. Wordsworth’s Grave, and Other Poems. By William Watson .
4. Sakuntalā; or, The Fatal Ring. By Kālidāsa . Translated by Sir William Jones . Introduction by Prof. Rhys Davids .

A London Plane-Tree.
	PAGE
A London Plane-Tree	17
London in July	18
A March Day in London	19
Ballade of an Omnibus	21
Ballade of a Special Edition	23
Ballade of a Special Edition	23
Straw in the Street	—Roundels 25-27
Between the Showers
Out of Town
The Piano-Organ	28
London Poets	29
The Village Garden	30

Love, Dreams, and Death.
New Love, New Life	35
Impotens	36
Youth and Love	37
The Dream	38
On the Threshold	39
The Birch-Tree at Loschwitz	40
Borderland	42
At Dawn	43
Last Words	44
June	46
A Reminiscence	47
The Sequel to “A Reminiscence”	48
In the Mile End Road	50
Contradictions	51
Twilight	52
In September	53

Moods and Thoughts.
The Old House	57
Lohengrin	58
Alma Mater	59
In the Black Forest	61
Captivity	62
The Two Terrors	64
The Promise of Sleep	65
The Last Judgment	66
Felo de Se	68
The Lost Friend	71
Cambridge in the Long	72
To Vernon Lee	74
The Old Poet	75
On the Wye in May	77
Oh, is it Love?	78
The End of the Day	80

Odds and Ends.
Songs From The New Phaon (unpublished)
1. A Wall-flower	85
2. The First Extra	86
3. At a Dinner Party	87
Philosophy	88
A Game of Lawn Tennis	90
To E.	91

A London Plane-Tree: The Temple Church. By J. Bernard Partridge .	Frontispiece.
Odds and Ends. By J. Bernard Partridge .	Facing p. 83.

The Project Gutenberg eBook of A London Plane-Tree, and Other Verse

A London Plane-Tree

To Clementina Black.

Contents.

Illustrations.

A London Plane-Tree.

A London Plane-Tree.

London in July.

A March Day in London.

Ballade of an Omnibus.

Ballade of a Special Edition.

Straw in the Street.

Between the Showers.

Out of Town.

The Piano-Organ.

London Poets.

The Village Garden.

Love, Dreams, & Death.

New Love, New Life.

I.

II.

Impotens.

Youth and Love.

The Dream.

On the Threshold.

The Birch-Tree at Loschwitz.

In the Night.

Borderland.

At Dawn.

Last Words.

June.

A Reminiscence.

The Sequel to “A Reminiscence.”

In the Mile End Road.

Contradictions.

Twilight.

In September.

Moods and Thoughts.

The Old House.

Lohengrin.

Alma Mater.

In the Black Forest.

Captivity.

The Two Terrors.

The Promise of Sleep.

The Last Judgment.

Felo de Se.

The Lost Friend.

Cambridge in the Long.

To Vernon Lee.

The Old Poet.

On the Wye in May.

Oh, is it Love?

In the Nower.

The End of the Day.

Odds and Ends.

A Wall Flower.

The First Extra.

At a Dinner Party.

Philosophy.

A Game of Lawn Tennis.

To E.

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE