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Amy Levy - In a Minor Key
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(AN ECHO FROM A LARGER LYRE.)


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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