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Best Famous Amy Levy Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Amy Levy poems. This is a select list of the best famous Amy Levy poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Amy Levy poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of Amy Levy poems.

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by Amy Levy |

A Greek Girl

 I may not weep, not weep, and he is dead.
A weary, weary weight of tears unshed Through the long day in my sad heart I bear; The horrid sun with all unpitying glare Shines down into the dreary weaving-room, Where clangs the ceaseless clatter of the loom, And ceaselessly deft maiden-fingers weave The fine-wrought web; and I from morn till eve Work with the rest, and when folk speak to me I smile hard smiles; while still continually The silly stream of maiden speech flows on:-- And now at length they talk of him that's gone, Lightly lamenting that he died so soon-- Ah me! ere yet his life's sun stood at noon.
Some praise his eyes, some deem his body fair, And some mislike the colour of his hair! Sweet life, sweet shape, sweet eyes, and sweetest hair, What form, what hue, save Love's own, did ye wear? I may not weep, not weep, for very shame.
He loved me not.
One summer's eve he came To these our halls, my father's honoured guest, And seeing me, saw not.
If his lips had prest My lips, but once, in love; his eyes had sent One love-glance into mine, I had been content, And deemed it great joy for one little life; Nor envied other maids the crown of wife: The long sure years, the merry children-band-- Alas, alas, I never touched his hand! And now my love is dead that loved not me.
Thrice-blest, thrice-crowned, of gods thrice-lovèd she-- That other, fairer maid, who tombward brings Her gold, shorn locks and piled-up offerings Of fragrant fruits, rich wines, and spices rare, And cakes with honey sweet, with saffron fair; And who, unchecked by any thought of shame, May weep her tears, and call upon his name, With burning bosom prest to the cold ground, Knowing, indeed, that all her life is crown'd, Thrice-crowned, thrice honoured, with that love of his;-- No dearer crown on earth is there, I wis.
While yet the sweet life lived, more light to bear Was my heart's hunger; when the morn was fair, And I with other maidens in a line Passed singing through the city to the shrine, Oft in the streets or crowded market-place I caught swift glimpses of the dear-known face; Or marked a stalwart shoulder in the throng; Or heard stray speeches as we passed along, In tones more dear to me than any song.
These, hoarded up with care, and kept apart, Did serve as meat and drink my hungry heart.
And now for ever has my sweet love gone; And weary, empty days I must drag on, Till all the days of all my life be sped, By no thought cheered, by no hope comforted.
For if indeed we meet among the shades, How shall he know me from the other maids?-- Me, that had died to save his body pain! Alas, alas, such idle thoughts are vain! O cruel, cruel sunlight, get thee gone! O dear, dim shades of eve, come swiftly on! That when quick lips, keen eyes, are closed in sleep, Through the long night till dawn I then may weep.


by Amy Levy |

A Farewell

 (After Heine.
) The sad rain falls from Heaven, A sad bird pipes and sings ; I am sitting here at my window And watching the spires of "King's.
" O fairest of all fair places, Sweetest of all sweet towns! With the birds, and the greyness and greenness, And the men in caps and gowns.
All they that dwell within thee, To leave are ever loth, For one man gets friends, and another Gets honour, and one gets both.
The sad rain falls from Heaven; My heart is great with woe-- I have neither a friend nor honour, Yet I am sorry to go.


by Amy Levy |

A Dirge

 "Mein Herz, mein Herz ist traurig
Doch lustig leuchtet der Mai"


There's May amid the meadows,
There's May amid the trees;
Her May-time note the cuckoo
Sends forth upon the breeze.
Above the rippling river May swallows skim and dart; November and December Keep watch within my heart.
The spring breathes in the breezes, The woods with wood-notes ring, And all the budding hedgerows Are fragrant of the spring.
In secret, silent places The live green things upstart; Ice-bound, ice-crown'd dwells winter For ever in my heart.
Upon the bridge I linger, Near where the lime-trees grow; Above, swart birds are circling, Beneath, the stream runs slow.
A stripling and a maiden Come wand'ring up the way; His eyes are glad with springtime, Her face is fair with May.
Of warmth the sun and sweetness All nature takes a part; The ice of all the ages Weighs down upon my heart.


by Amy Levy |

A Cross-Road Epitaph

 "Am Kreuzweg wird begraben
Wer selber brachte sich um.
" When first the world grew dark to me I call'd on God, yet came not he.
Whereon, as wearier wax'd my lot, On Love I call'd, but Love came not.
When a worse evil did befall, Death, on thee only did I call.


by Amy Levy |

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?


by Amy Levy |

On the Wye in May

 Now is the perfect moment of the year.
Half naked branches, half a mist of green, Vivid and delicate the slopes appear; The cool, soft air is neither fierce nor keen, And in the temperate sun we feel no fear; Of all the hours which shall be and have been, It is the briefest as it is most dear, It is the dearest as the shortest seen.
O it was best, belovèd, at the first.
-- Our hands met gently, and our meeting sight Was steady; on our senses scarce had burst The faint, fresh fragrance of the new delight.
.
.
I seek that clime, unknown, without a name, Where first and best and last shall be the same.


by Amy Levy |

The Two Terrors

 Two terrors fright my soul by night and day:
The first is Life, and with her come the years;
A weary, winding train of maidens they,
With forward-fronting eyes, too sad for tears;
Upon whose kindred faces, blank and grey,
The shadow of a kindred woe appears.
Death is the second terror; who shall say What form beneath the shrouding mantle nears? Which way she turn, my soul finds no relief, My smitten soul may not be comforted; Alternately she swings from grief to grief, And, poised between them, sways from dread to dread.
For there she dreads because she knows; and here, Because she knows not, only faints with fear.


by Amy Levy |

On the Threshold

 O God, my dream! I dreamed that you were dead;
Your mother hung above the couch and wept
Whereon you lay all white, and garlanded
With blooms of waxen whiteness.
I had crept Up to your chamber-door, which stood ajar, And in the doorway watched you from afar, Nor dared advance to kiss your lips and brow.
I had no part nor lot in you, as now; Death had not broken between us the old bar; Nor torn from out my heart the old, cold sense Of your misprision and my impotence.


by Amy Levy |

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,
Nor what it is I wish;
The passion at my heart-strings strains
Like a tiger in a leash.


by Amy Levy |

June

 Last June I saw your face three times;
Three times I touched your hand;
Now, as before, May month is o'er,
And June is in the land.
O many Junes shall come and go, Flow'r-footed o'er the mead; O many Junes for me, to whom Is length of days decreed.
There shall be sunlight, scent of rose; Warm mist of summer rain; Only this change--I shall not look Upon your face again.