Here you will find the Long Poem A Minor Poet of poet Amy Levy
"What should such fellows as I do, Crawling between earth and heaven?" Here is the phial; here I turn the key Sharp in the lock. Click!--there's no doubt it turned. This is the third time; there is luck in threes-- Queen Luck, that rules the world, befriend me now And freely I'll forgive you many wrongs! Just as the draught began to work, first time, Tom Leigh, my friend (as friends go in the world), Burst in, and drew the phial from my hand, (Ah, Tom! ah, Tom! that was a sorry turn!) And lectured me a lecture, all compact Of neatest, newest phrases, freshly culled From works of newest culture: "common good ;" "The world's great harmonies;""must be content With knowing God works all things for the best, And Nature never stumbles." Then again, "The common good," and still, "the common, good;" And what a small thing was our joy or grief When weigh'd with that of thousands. Gentle Tom, But you might wag your philosophic tongue From morn till eve, and still the thing's the same: I am myself, as each man is himself-- Feels his own pain, joys his own joy, and loves With his own love, no other's. Friend, the world Is but one man; one man is but the world. And I am I, and you are Tom, that bleeds When needles prick your flesh (mark, yours, not mine). I must confess it; I can feel the pulse A-beating at my heart, yet never knew The throb of cosmic pulses. I lament The death of youth's ideal in my heart; And, to be honest, never yet rejoiced In the world's progress--scarce, indeed, discerned; (For still it seems that God's a Sisyphus With the world for stone). You shake your head. I'm base, Ignoble? Who is noble--you or I? I was not once thus? Ah, my friend, we are As the Fates make us. This time is the third; The second time the flask fell from my hand, Its drowsy juices spilt upon the board; And there my face fell flat, and all the life Crept from my limbs, and hand and foot were bound With mighty chains, subtle, intangible; While still the mind held to its wonted use, Or rather grew intense and keen with dread, An awful dread--I thought I was in Hell. In Hell, in Hell ! Was ever Hell conceived By mortal brain, by brain Divine devised, Darker, more fraught with torment, than the world For such as I? A creature maimed and marr'd From very birth. A blot, a blur, a note All out of tune in this world's instrument. A base thing, yet not knowing to fulfil Base functions. A high thing, yet all unmeet For work that's high. A dweller on the earth, Yet not content to dig with other men Because of certain sudden sights and sounds (Bars of broke music; furtive, fleeting glimpse Of angel faces 'thwart the grating seen) Perceived in Heaven. Yet when I approach To catch the sound's completeness, to absorb The faces'full perfection, Heaven's gate, Which then had stood ajar, sudden falls to, And I, a-shiver in the dark and cold, Scarce hear afar the mocking tones of men: "He would not dig, forsooth ; but he must strive For higher fruits than what our tillage yields; Behold what comes, my brothers, of vain pride!" Why play with figures? trifle prettily With this my grief which very simply's said, "There is no place for me in all the world"? The world's a rock, and I will beat no more A breast of flesh and blood against a rock. . . A stride across the planks for old time's sake. Ah, bare, small room that I have sorrowed in; Ay, and on sunny days, haply, rejoiced; We know some things together, you and I! Hold there, you rangèd row of books ! In vain You beckon from your shelf. You've stood my friends Where all things else were foes; yet now I'll turn My back upon you, even as the world Turns it on me. And yet--farewell, farewell! You, lofty Shakespere, with the tattered leaves And fathomless great heart, your binding's bruised Yet did I love you less? Goethe, farewell; Farewell, triumphant smile and tragic eyes, And pitiless world-wisdom! For all men These two. And 'tis farewell with you, my friends, More dear because more near: Theokritus; Heine that stings and smiles; Prometheus'bard; (I've grown too coarse for Shelley latterly:) And one wild singer of to-day, whose song Is all aflame with passionate bard's blood Lash'd into foam by pain and the world's wrong. At least, he has a voice to cry his pain; For him, no silent writhing in the dark, No muttering of mute lips, no straining out Of a weak throat a-choke with pent-up sound, A-throb with pent-up passion. . . Ah, my sun! That's you, then, at the window, looking in To beam farewell on one who's loved you long And very truly. Up, you creaking thing, You squinting, cobwebbed casement! So, at last, I can drink in the sunlight. How it falls.