To Clementina Black

Poem By Amy Levy

More blest than was of old Diogenes,
I have not held my lantern up in vain.
Not mine, at least, this evil--to complain:
"There is none honest among all of these."

Our hopes go down that sailed before the breeze;
Our creeds upon the rock are rent in twain;
Something it is, if at the last remain
One floating spar cast up by hungry seas.

The secret of our being, who can tell?
To praise the gods and Fate is not my part;
Evil I see, and pain ; within my heart
There is no voice that whispers: "All is well."

Yet fair are days in summer; and more fair
The growths of human goodness here and there.

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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
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Of an unseen presence hovering,

A Prayer

Since that I may not have
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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.