The Promise Of Sleep

Poem By Amy Levy

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 not work nor rest;
The trouble drove me to and fro,
Like a leaf on the storm's breast.

Night came and saw my sorrow cease;
Sleep in the chamber stole;
Peace crept about my limbs, and peace
Fell on my stormy soul.

And now I think of only this,--
How I again may woo
The gentle sleep-- who promises
That death is gentle too.

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"Am Kreuzweg wird begraben
Wer selber brachte sich um."

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Am I waking, am I sleeping?
As the first faint dawn comes creeping
Thro' the pane, I am aware
Of an unseen presence hovering,

A Prayer

Since that I may not have
Love on this side the grave,
Let me imagine Love.
Since not mine is the bliss

In A Minor Key

(AN ECHO FROM A LARGER LYRE.)


That was love that I had before

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,

Epitaph. (On A Commonplace Person Who Died In Bed)

THIS is the end of him, here he lies:
The dust in his throat, the worm in his eyes,
The mould in his mouth, the turf on his breast;
This is the end of him, this is best.