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Poem by Amy Levy


All things I can endure, save one. 
The bare, blank room where is no sun;
The parcelled hours; the pallet hard;
The dreary faces here within;
The outer womens cold regard;
The Pastors iterated sin;--
These things could I endure, and count
No overstraind, unjust amount;
No undue payment for such bliss--
Yea, all things bear, save only this:
That you, who knew what thing would be,
Have wrought this evil unto me.
It is so strange to think on still--
That you, that you should do me ill!
Not as one ignorant or blind,
But seeing clearly in your mind
How this must be which now has been,
Nothing aghast at what was seen.
Now that the tale is told and done,
It is so strange to think upon.
You were so tender with me, too!
One summers night a cold blast blew,
Closer about my throat you drew
That half-slipt shawl of dusky blue.
And once my hand, on summers morn,
I stretched to pluck a rose; a thorn
Struck through the flesh and made it bleed
(A little drop of blood indeed!)
Pale grew your cheek you stoopt and bound
Your handkerchief about the wound;
Your voice came with a broken sound;
With the deep breath your breast was riven;
I wonder, did God laugh in Heaven?

How strange, that you should work my woe!
How strange! I wonder, do you know
How gladly, gladly I had died
(And life was very sweet that tide)
To save you from the least, light ill?
How gladly I had borne your pain.
With one great pulse we seemd to thrill,--
Nay, but we thrilld with pulses twain.

Even if one had told me this,
A poison lurks within your kiss,
Gall that shall turn to night his day:
Thereon I straight had turned away--
Ay, tho my heart had crackd with pain--
And never kissd your lips again.

At night, or when the daylight nears,
I hear the other women weep;
My own hearts anguish lies too deep
For the soft rain and pain of tears.
I think my heart has turnd to stone,
A dull, dead weight that hurts my breast;
Here, on my pallet-bed alone,
I keep apart from all the rest.
Wide-eyed I lie upon my bed,
I often cannot sleep all night;
The future and the past are dead,
There is no thought can bring delight.
All night I lie and think and think;
If my heart were not made of stone,
But flesh and blood, it needs must shrink
Before such thoughts. Was ever known
A woman with a heart of stone?

The doctor says that I shall die.
It may be so, yet what care I?
Endless reposing from the strife?
Death do I trust no more than life.
For one thing is like one arrayed,
And there is neither false nor true;
But in a hideous masquerade
All things dance on, the ages through.
And good is evil, evil good;
Nothing is known or understood
Save only Pain. I have no faith
In God, or Devil, Life or Death.

The doctor says that I shall die.
You, that I knew in days gone by,
I fain would see your face once more,
Con well its features oer and oer;
And touch your hand and feel your kiss,
Look in your eyes and tell you this:
That all is done, that I am free;
That you, through all eternity,
Have neither part nor lot in me.

Amy Levy

Amy Levy's other poems:
  1. On the Wye in May
  2. On the Threshold
  3. The Two Terrors
  4. The Old Poet
  5. To E.

Poems of the other poets with the same name:

  • Fitz-Greene Halleck Magdalen ("A SWORD, whose blade has ne'er been wet")

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