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Poem by Amy Levy
Ere 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;-- 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.
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