Amy Levy

Amy Levy

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Amy Judith Levy (10 November 1861 – 10 September 1889) was a British essayist, poet, and novelist best remembered for her literary gifts; her experience as the first Jewish woman at Cambridge University and as a pioneering woman student at Newnham College, Cambridge.
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XantippeA Fragment

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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
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To Death

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(From Lenau
)If within my heart there's mould,
If the flame of
And the flame of Love grow cold,
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New Love New Life

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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,
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London Poets

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(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
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Sinfonia Eroica

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(To Sylvia
)My Love, my Love, it was a day in June,
A mellow, drowsy, golden afternoon;
And all the eager people thronging
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The Promise of Sleep

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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...
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To Lallie Outside the British Museum

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Up those Museum steps you came,
And straightway all my blood was flame,                             O Lallie,
Lallie
The world (I had been feeling low)In one short moment's space did grow                             A happy valley
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The Sick Man and the Nightingale

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(From Lenau
)So late, and yet a nightingale
Long since have dropp'd the blossoms pale,
The summer fields are ripening,    And yet a sound of spring
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Magdalen

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LL 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 women's cold regard; The Pastor's iterated "sin";— These things could I endure, and...
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To Vernon Lee

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On Bellosguardo, when the year was young,
We wandered, seeking for the
And dark anemone, whose purples
The peasant's plot, between the corn-shoots sprung
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In a Minor Key

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Sonnet

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Most wonderful and strange it seems, that
Who but a little time ago was
High on the waves of passion and of pain,
With aching heat and wildly throbbing brain,
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Epitaph On a Commonplace Person Who Died in Bed

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This is the end of him, here he lies:
The dust in his throat, the worm in his eyes,
The mould in his mouth, the turf on his breast;
This is the end of him, this is best
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In the Mile End Road

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OW like her
But 'tis she herself,      Comes up the crowded street,  How little did I think, the morn,    My only love to meet
Whose else that motion and that mien
Whose else that airy tread
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The Lost Friend

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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;
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The Village Garden

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To E
M
S
Here, where your garden fenced about and still is,    Here, where the unmoved summer air is
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