The Project Gutenberg eBook of A London Plane-Tree, and Other Verse
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Title: A London Plane-Tree, and Other Verse
Author: Amy Levy
Release date: April 13, 2018 [eBook #56974]
Most recently updated: January 24, 2021
Language: English
Credits: Produced by Chuck Greif, MWS and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A LONDON PLANE-TREE, AND OTHER VERSE ***
| BY THE SAME AUTHOR. |
| A MINOR POET, AND OTHER VERSE. |
| THE ROMANCE OF A SHOP (A Novel). |
| REUBEN SACHS (A Novel). |
A London Plane-Tree
and other Verse
by
AMY LEVY
CAMEO
SERIES
T. FISHER UNWIN PATERNOSTER SQ.
LONDON, E.C. MDCCCLXXXIX
| 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. |
The proofs of this volume were corrected by the Author about a week before her death.
Mine is an urban Muse, and bound
By some strange law to paven ground.
AUSTIN DOBSON.
By some strange law to paven ground.
AUSTIN DOBSON.
To Clementina Black.
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.”
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.
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.”
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.”
Contents.
Illustrations.
| A London Plane-Tree: The Temple Church. By J. Bernard Partridge. | Frontispiece. |
| Odds and Ends. By J. Bernard Partridge. | Facing p. 83. |
A London Plane-Tree.
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.
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.
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.
The city breezes play;
The dun fog wraps her round about;
Above, the smoke curls grey.
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?
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.
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!
Wide waste of square and street;
Where, missing through unnumbered days,
We twain at last may meet!
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.
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.
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.
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.
Ballade of an Omnibus.
To see my love suffices me.
—Ballades in Blue China.
—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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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!
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.
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.
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.
Straw in the Street.
STRAW in the street where I pass to-day
Dulls the sound of the wheels and feet.
’Tis for a failing life they lay
Straw in the street.
Dulls 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?
Someone strives with the Presence grey;
Ah, is it victory or defeat?
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.
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.
The blue broke forth athwart the grey;
Birds carolled in their leafless bowers.
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.
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.
Pure and keen the air above it blew;
All wore peace and beauty for a crown.
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.
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.
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.
Or a funeral-march sad and slow,
But not, O not, that waltz tune
I heard so long ago.
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.
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 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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
For me, the roar and hurry of the town,
Wherein more lightly seems to press the burden
Of individual life that weighs me down.
Ah Love! could you and I with Him conspire
To grasp this sorry Scheme of Things entire,
Would not we shatter it to bits—and then
Re-mould it nearer to the Heart’s Desire!
To grasp this sorry Scheme of Things entire,
Would not we shatter it to bits—and then
Re-mould it nearer to the Heart’s Desire!
Omar Khayyám.
Love, Dreams, & Death.
New Love, New Life.
I.
SHE, who so long has lain
Stone-stiff with folded wings,
Within my heart again
The brown bird wakes and sings.
Stone-stiff with folded wings,
Within my heart again
The brown bird wakes and sings.
Brown nightingale, whose strain
Is heard by day, by night,
She sings of joy and pain,
Of sorrow and delight.
Is heard by day, by night,
She sings of joy and pain,
Of sorrow and delight.