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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

IN A MINOR KEY (AN ECHO FROM A LARGER LYRE) by AMY LEVY

First Line: THAT WAS LOVE THAT I HAD BEFORE
Last Line: SOMEHOW, I THINK I SHOULD COME, MY FRIEND !
THAT was love that I had before
Years ago, when my heart was young ;
Ev'ry smile was a gem you wore ;
Ev'ry word was a sweet song sung.

You came -- all my pulses burn'd and beat.
(O sweet wild throbs of an early day !)
You went -- with the last dear sound of your feet
The light wax'd dim and the place grew grey.

And I us'd to pace with a stealthy tread
By a certain house which is under a hill ;
A cottage stands near, wall'd white, roof'd red --
Tall trees grow thick -- I can see it still !

How I us'd to watch with a hope that was fear
For the least swift glimpse of your gown's dear fold !
(You wore blue gowns in those days, my dear --
One light for summer, one dark for cold.)

Tears and verses I shed for you in show'rs ;
I would have staked my soul for a kiss ;
Tribute daily I brought you of flow'rs,
Rose, lily, your favourite eucharis.

There came a day we were doomed to part ;
There's a queer, small gate at the foot of a slope :
We parted there -- and I thought my heart
Had parted for ever from love and hope.

Is it love that I have to-day ?
Love, that bloom'd early, has it bloom'd late
For me, that, clothed in my spirit's grey,
Sit in the stillness and stare at Fate ?

Song nor sonnet for you I've penned,
Nor passionate paced by your home's wide wall
I have brought you never a flow'r, my friend,
Never a tear for your sake let fall.

And yet -- and yet -- ah, who understands ?
We men and women are complex things !
A hundred tunes Fate's inexorable hands
May play on the sensitive soul-strings.

Webs of strange patterns we weave (each owns)
From colour and sound; and like unto these,
Soul has its tones and its semitones,
Mind has its major and minor keys.

Your face (men pass it without a word)
It haunts my dreams like an odd, sweet strain ;
When your name is spoken my soul is stirr'd
In its deepest depths with a dull, dim pain.

I paced, in the damp grey mist, last night
In the streets (an hour) to see you pass :
Yet I do not think that I love you -- quite ;
What's felt so finely 'twere coarse to class.

And yet -- and yet -- I scarce can tell why
(As I said, we are riddles and hard to read),
If the world went ill with you, and I
Could help with a hidden hand your need ;

But, ere I could reach you where you lay,
Must strength and substance and honour spend ;
Journey long journeys by night and day --
Somehow, I think I should come, my friend !



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