1 min read
Слушать(AI)To Death
(From Lenau.)If within my heart there's mould,
If the flame of
And the flame of Love grow cold,
Slay my body utterly.
Swiftly, pause not nor delay;
Let not my life's field be
With the ash of feelings dead,
Let thy singer soar away.
Amy Levy
Amy Judith Levy (10 November 1861 – 10 September 1889) was a British essayist, poet, and novelist best remembered for her literary gifts; her ex
Comments
You need to be signed in to write comments
Other author posts
The Lost Friend
The people take the thing of course, They marvel not to This strange, unnatural divorce Betwixt delight and me I know the face of sorrow, and I Her voice with all its varied cadences;
XantippeA Fragment
What, have I waked again I never To see the rosy dawn, or ev'n this grey, Dull, solemn stillness, ere the dawn has come
The Promise of Sleep
Put the sweet thoughts from out thy mind, The dreams from out thy breast; No joy for thee—but thou shalt find Thy All day I could not work for woe, I could not work nor rest; The trouble drove me to and fro, Like a leaf on the storm...
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 Brown nightingale, whose strain Is heard by day, by night,
