Poem – To A Dead Poet

I knew not if to laugh or weep;
They sat and talked of you–

“‘Twas here he sat; ’twas this he said!

‘Twas that he used to do. 
“Here is the book wherein he read,

The room wherein he dwelt;

And he” (they said) “was such a man,

Such things he thought and felt.”
I sat and sat, I did not stir;

They talked and talked away.

I was as mute as any stone,

I had no word to say.
They talked and talked; like to a stone

My heart grew in my breast–

I, who had never seen your face

Perhaps I knew you best. 

Poem – To Clementina Black 

More blest than was of old Diogenes,
I have not held my lantern up in vain.

Not mine, at least, this evil–to complain:

“There is none honest among all of these.”
Our hopes go down that sailed before the breeze;

Our creeds upon the rock are rent in twain;

Something it is, if at the last remain

One floating spar cast up by hungry seas.
The secret of our being, who can tell?

To praise the gods and Fate is not my part;

Evil I see, and pain ; within my heart

There is no voice that whispers: “All is well.”
Yet fair are days in summer; and more fair

The growths of human goodness here and there. 

Poem – To E 

The mountains in fantastic lines
Sweep, blue-white, to the sky, which shines

Blue as blue gems; athwart the pines

The lake gleams blue.
We three were here, three years gone by;

Our Poet, with fine-frenzied eye,

You, stepped in learned lore, and I,

A poet too.
Our Poet brought us books and flowers,

He read us Faust; he talked for hours

Philosophy (sad Schopenhauer’s),

Beneath the trees:
And do you mind that sunny day,

When he, as on the sward he lay,

Told of Lassalle who bore away

The false Louise?
Thrice-favoured bard! to him alone

That green and snug retreat was shown,

Where to the vulgar herd unknown,

Our pens we plied.
(For, in those distant days, it seems,

We cherished sundry idle dreams,

And with our flowing foolscap reams

The Fates defied.)
And after, when the day was gone,

And the hushed, silver night came on,

He showed us where the glow-worm shone;–

We stooped to see.
There, too, by yonder moon we swore

Platonic friendship o’er and o’er;

No folk, we deemed, had been before

So wise and free.

And do I sigh or smile to-day?

Dead love or dead ambition, say,

Which mourn we most? Not much we weigh

Platonic friends.
On you the sun is shining free;

Our Poet sleeps in Italy,

Beneath an alien sod; on me

The cloud descends. 

Poem – To Lallie

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.

There was a friend, my friend, with you;

A meagre dame in peacock blue

Apparelled quaintly:

This poet-heart went pit-a-pat;

I bowed and smiled and raised my hat;

You nodded–faintly.

My heart was full as full could be;

You had not got a word for me,

Not one short greeting;

That nonchalant small nod you gave

(The tyrant’s motion to the slave)

Sole mark’d our meeting.

Is it so long ? Do you forget

That first and last time that we met?

The time was summer.

The trees were green; the sky was blue;

Our host presented me to you–

A tardy comer.

You look’d demure, but when you spoke

You made a little, funny joke,

Yet half pathetic.

Your gown was grey, I recollect,

I think you patronized the sect

They call “æsthetic.”

I brought you strawberries and cream,

And plied you long about a stream

With duckweed laden ;

We solemnly discussed the — heat.

I found you shy and very sweet,

A rosebud maiden.

Ah me, to-day! You passed inside

To where the marble gods abide:

Hermes, Apollo,

Sweet Aphrodite, Pan; and where,

For aye reclined, a headless fair

Beats all fairs hollow.

And I, I went upon my way,

Well — rather sadder, let us say;

The world looked flatter.

I had been sad enough before,

A little less, a little more,

What does it matter? 

Poem – To Sylvia 

“O love, lean thou thy cheek to mine,

And let the tears together flow”–

Such was the song you sang to me

Once, long ago.
Such was the song you sang; and yet

(O be not wroth!) I scarcely knew

What sounds flow’d forth; I only felt

That you were you.
I scarcely knew your hair was gold,

Nor of the heavens’ own blue your eyes.

Sylvia and song, divinely mixt,

Made Paradise.
These things I scarcely knew; to-day,

When love is lost and hope is fled,

The song you sang so long ago

Rings in my head.
Clear comes each note and true; to-day,

As in a picture I behold

Your tur’d-up chin, and small, sweet head

Misty with gold.
I see how your dear eyes grew deep,

How your lithe body thrilled and swayed,

And how were whiter than the keys

Your hands that played. . .
Ah, sweetest! cruel have you been,

And robbed my life of many things.

I will not chide; ere this I knew

That Love had wings.
You’ve robbed my life of many things–

Of love and hope, of fame and pow’r.

So be it, sweet. You cannot steal

One golden hour. 

Poem – To Vernon Lee 

On Bellosguardo, when the year was young,
We wandered, seeking for the daffodil

And dark anemone, whose purples fill

The peasant’s plot, between the corn-shoots sprung.
Over the grey, low wall the olive flung

Her deeper greyness ; far off, hill on hill

Sloped to the sky, which, pearly-pale and still,

Above the large and luminous landscape hung.
A snowy blackthorn flowered beyond my reach;

You broke a branch and gave it to me there;

I found for you a scarlet blossom rare.
Thereby ran on of Art and Life our speech;

And of the gifts the gods had given to each–

Hope unto you, and unto me Despair. 

Poem – Translated from Geibel

O say, thou wild, thou oft deceived heart,
What mean these noisy throbbings in my breast?

After thy long, unutterable woe

Wouldst thou not rest?
Fall’n from Life’s tree the sweet rose-blossom lies,

And fragrant youth has fled. What made to seem

This earth as fair to thee as Paradise,

Was all a dream.
The blossom fell, the thorn was left to me;

Deep from the wound the blood-drops ever flow,

All that I have are yearnings, wild desires,

And wrath and woe.
They brought me Lethe’s water, saying, ‘Drink!’

‘Drink, for the draught is sweet,’ I heard them say,

‘Shalt learn how soft a thing forgetting is.’

I answered : ‘Nay.’
What tho’ indeed it were an idle cheat,

Nathless to me ’twas very fair and blest:

With every breath I draw I know that love

Reigns in my breast.
Let me go forth,–and thou, my heart, bleed on:

A lonely spot I seek by night and day,

That love and sorrow I may there breathe forth

In a last lay. 

Poem – Twilight 

So Mary died last night! To-day
The news has travelled here.

And Robert died at Michaelmas,

And Walter died last year.
I went at sunset up the lane,

I lingered by the stile;

I saw the dusky fields that stretched

Before me many a mile.
I leaned against the stile, and thought

Of her whose soul had fled–

I knew that years on years must pass

Or e’er I should be dead. 

Poem – A Wall Flower

I lounge in the doorway and languish in vain
While Tom, Dick and Harry are dancing with Jane

My spirit rises to the music’s beat;

There is a leaden fiend lurks in my feet!

To move unto your motion, Love, were sweet.
Somewhere, I think, some other where, not here,

In other ages, on another sphere,

I danced with you, and you with me, my dear.
In perfect motion did our bodies sway,

To perfect music that was heard alway;

Woe’s me, that am so dull of foot to-day!
To move unto your motion, Love, were sweet;

My spirit rises to the music’s beat–

But, ah, the leaden demon in my feet! 

Cambridge In The Long – Amy Levy 

Where drowsy sound of college-chimes 

Across the air is blown, 

And drowsy fragrance of the limes, 

I lie and dream alone. 
A dazzling radiance reigns o’er all– 

O’er gardens densely green, 

O’er old grey bridges and the small, 

Slow flood which slides between. 
This is the place; it is not strange, 

But known of old and dear.– 

What went I forth to seek? The change 

Is mine; why am I here? 
Alas, in vain I turned away, 

I fled the town in vain; 

The strenuous life of yesterday 

Calleth me back again. 
And was it peace I came to seek? 

Yet here, where memories throng, 

Ev’n here, I know the past is weak, 

I know the present strong. 
This drowsy fragrance, silent heat, 

Suit not my present mind, 

Whose eager thought goes out to meet 

The life it left behind. 
Spirit with sky to change; such hope, 

An idle one we know; 

Unship the oars, make loose the rope, 

Push off the boat and go. . . 
Ah, would what binds me could have been 

Thus loosened at a touch! 

This pain of living is too keen, 

Of loving, is too much.

The Promise Of Sleep – Amy Levy 

Put the sweet thoughts from out thy mind, 

The dreams from out thy breast; 

No joy for thee–but thou shalt find 

Thy rest 
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’s breast. 
Night came and saw my sorrow cease; 

Sleep in the chamber stole; 

Peace crept about my limbs, and peace 

Fell on my stormy soul. 
And now I think of only this,– 

How I again may woo 

The gentle sleep– who promises 

That death is gentle too.

The Sick Man And The Nightingale – Amy Levy 

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? 
O tell me, didst thou come to hear, 

Sweet Spring, that I should die this year; 

And call’st across from the far shore 

To me one greeting more?

New Love, New Life – Amy Levy 

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, 

She sings of joy and pain, 

Of sorrow and delight. 
‘Tis true,–in other days 

Have I unbarred the door; 

He knows the walks and ways– 

Love has been here before. 
Love blest and love accurst 

Was here in days long past; 

This time is not the first, 

But this time is the last.

Sonnet – Amy Levy 

Most wonderful and strange it seems, that I 

Who but a little time ago was tost 

High on the waves of passion and of pain, 

With aching heat and wildly throbbing brain, 

Who peered into the darkness, deeming vain 

All things there found if but One thing were lost, 

Thus calm and still and silent here should lie, 

Watching and waiting, –waiting passively. 
The dark has faded, and before mine eyes 

Have long, grey flats expanded, dim and bare; 

And through the changing guises all things wear 

Inevitable Law I recognise: 

Yet in my heart a hint of feeling lies 

Which half a hope and half a despair.

Poem – A Minor 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. 

Across that endless sea of London roofs, 

Weaving such golden wonders on the grey, 

That almost, for the moment, we forget 

The world of woe beneath them. 


For all the sunset glory, Pain is king. 
Yet, the sun’s there, and very sweet withal; 

And I’ll not grumble that it’s only sun, 

But open wide my lips–thus–drink it in; 

Turn up my face to the sweet evening sky 

(What royal wealth of scarlet on the blue 

So tender toned, you’d almost think it green) 

And stretch my hands out–so–to grasp it tight. 

Ha, ha! ’tis sweet awhile to cheat the Fates, 

And be as happy as another man. 

The sun works in my veins like wine, like wine! 

‘Tis a fair world: if dark, indeed, with woe, 

Yet having hope and hint of such a joy, 

That a man, winning, well might turn aside, 

Careless of Heaven . . . 

O enough; I turn 

From the sun’s light, or haply I shall hope. 

I have hoped enough; I would not hope again: 

‘Tis hope that is most cruel. 

Tom, my friend, 

You very sorry philosophic fool; 

‘Tis you, I think, that bid me be resign’d, 

Trust, and be thankful. 

Out on you! Resign’d? 

I’m not resign’d, not patient, not school’d in 

To take my starveling’s portion and pretend 

I’m grateful for it. I want all, all, all; 

I’ve appetite for all. I want the best: 

Love, beauty, sunlight, nameless joy of life. 

There’s too much patience in the world, I think. 

We have grown base with crooking of the knee. 

Mankind–say–God has bidden to a feast; 

The board is spread, and groans with cates and drinks; 

In troop the guests; each man with appetite 

Keen-whetted with expectance. 

In they troop, 

Struggle for seats, jostle and push and seize. 

What’s this? what’s this? There are not seats for all! 

Some men must stand without the gates; and some 

Must linger by the table, ill-supplied 

With broken meats. One man gets meat for two, 

The while another hungers. If I stand 

Without the portals, seeing others eat 

Where I had thought to satiate the pangs 

Of mine own hunger; shall I then come forth 

When all is done, and drink my Lord’s good health 

In my Lord’s water? Shall I not rather turn 

And curse him, curse him for a niggard host? 

O, I have hungered, hungered, through the years, 

Till appetite grows craving, then disease; 

I am starved, wither’d, shrivelled. 

Peace, O peace! 

This rage is idle; what avails to curse 

The nameless forces, the vast silences 

That work in all things. 

This time is the third, 

I wrought before in heat, stung mad with pain, 

Blind, scarcely understanding; now I know 

What thing I do. 

There was a woman once; 

Deep eyes she had, white hands, a subtle smile, 

Soft speaking tones: she did not break my heart, 

Yet haply had her heart been otherwise 

Mine had not now been broken. Yet, who knows? 

My life was jarring discord from the first: 

Tho’ here and there brief hints of melody, 

Of melody unutterable, clove the air. 

From this bleak world, into the heart of night, 

The dim, deep bosom of the universe, 

I cast myself. I only crave for rest; 

Too heavy is the load. I fling it down. 

We knocked and knocked; at last, burst in the door, 

And found him as you know–the outstretched arms 

Propping the hidden face. The sun had set, 

And all the place was dim with lurking shade. 

There was no written word to say farewell, 

Or make more clear the deed. 

I search’d and search’d; 

The room held little: just a row of books 

Much scrawl’d and noted; sketches on the wall, 

Done rough in charcoal; the old instrument 

(A violin, no Stradivarius) 

He played so ill on; in the table drawer 

Large schemes of undone work. Poems half-writ; 

Wild drafts of symphonies; big plans of fugues; 

Some scraps of writing in a woman’s hand: 

No more–the scattered pages of a tale, 

A sorry tale that no man cared to read. 

Alas, my friend, I lov’d him well, tho’ he 

Held me a cold and stagnant-blooded fool, 

Because I am content to watch, and wait 

With a calm mind the issue of all things. 

Certain it is my blood’s no turbid stream; 

Yet, for all that, haply I understood 

More than he ever deem’d; nor held so light 

The poet in him. Nay, I sometimes doubt 

If they have not, indeed, the better part– 

These poets, who get drunk with sun, and weep 

Because the night or a woman’s face is fair. 

Meantime there is much talk about my friend. 

The women say, of course, he died for love; 

The men, for lack of gold, or cavilling 

Of carping critics. I, Tom Leigh, his friend 

I have no word at all to say of this. 

Nay, I had deem’d him more philosopher; 

For did he think by this one paltry deed 

To cut the knot of circumstance, and snap 

The chain which binds all being?

Poem – The Dream -Amy Levy 

Believe me, this was true last night, Tho’ it is false to-day. 

  • A.M.F. Robinson. 

A fair dream to my chamber flew: 

Such a crowd of folk that stirred, 

Jested, fluttered; only you, 

You alone of all that band, 

Calm and silent, spake no word. 

Only once you neared my place, 

And your hand one moment’s space 

Sought the fingers of my hand; 

Your eyes flashed to mine; I knew 

All was well between us two. 

On from dream to dream I past, 

But the first sweet vision cast 

Mystic radiance o’er the last. 

When I woke the pale night lay 

Still, expectant of the day; 

All about the chamber hung 

Tender shade of twilight gloom; 

The fair dream hovered round me, clung 

To my thought like faint perfume:- 

Like sweet odours, such as cling 

To the void flask, which erst encloses 

Attar of rose; or the pale string 

Of amber which has lain with roses.

Poem – Borderland – Amy Levy

Am I waking, am I sleeping? 

As the first faint dawn comes creeping 

Thro’ the pane, I am aware 

Of an unseen presence hovering, 

Round, above, in the dusky air: 

A downy bird, with an odorous wing, 

That fans my forehead, and sheds perfume, 

As sweet as love, as soft as death, 

Drowsy-slow through the summer-gloom. 

My heart in some dream-rapture saith, 

It is she. Half in a swoon, 

I spread my arms in slow delight.– 

O prolong, prolong the night, 

For the nights are short in June!

Poem – A prayer – Amy Levy

Since that I may not have Love on this side the grave, 

Let me imagine Love. 

Since not mine is the bliss 

Of ‘claspt hands and lips that kiss,’ 

Let me in dreams it prove. 

What tho’ as the years roll 

No soul shall melt to my soul, 

Let me conceive such thing; 

Tho’ never shall entwine 

Loving arms around mine 

Let dreams caresses bring. 

To live–it is my doom– 

Lonely as in a tomb, 

This cross on me was laid; 

My God, I know not why; 

Here in the dark I lie, 

Lonely, yet not afraid. 

It has seemed good to Thee 

Still to withhold the key 

Which opes the way to men; 

I am shut in alone, 

I make not any moan, 

Thy ways are past my ken. 

Yet grant me this, to find 

The sweetness in my mind 

Which I must still forego; 

Great God which art above, 

Grant me to image Love,– 

The bliss without the woe.

Poem – A Greek Girl – Amy Levy 

I may not weep, not weep, and he is dead. 

A weary, weary weight of tears unshed 

Through the long day in my sad heart I bear; 

The horrid sun with all unpitying glare 

Shines down into the dreary weaving-room, 

Where clangs the ceaseless clatter of the loom, 

And ceaselessly deft maiden-fingers weave 

The fine-wrought web; and I from morn till eve 

Work with the rest, and when folk speak to me 

I smile hard smiles; while still continually 

The silly stream of maiden speech flows on:– 

And now at length they talk of him that’s gone, 

Lightly lamenting that he died so soon– 

Ah me! ere yet his life’s sun stood at noon. 

Some praise his eyes, some deem his body fair, 

And some mislike the colour of his hair! 

Sweet life, sweet shape, sweet eyes, and sweetest hair, 

What form, what hue, save Love’s own, did ye wear? 

I may not weep, not weep, for very shame. 
He loved me not. One summer’s eve he came 

To these our halls, my father’s honoured guest, 

And seeing me, saw not. If his lips had prest 

My lips, but once, in love; his eyes had sent 

One love-glance into mine, I had been content, 

And deemed it great joy for one little life; 

Nor envied other maids the crown of wife: 

The long sure years, the merry children-band– 

Alas, alas, I never touched his hand! 

And now my love is dead that loved not me. 
Thrice-blest, thrice-crowned, of gods thrice-lovèd she– 

That other, fairer maid, who tombward brings 

Her gold, shorn locks and piled-up offerings 

Of fragrant fruits, rich wines, and spices rare, 

And cakes with honey sweet, with saffron fair; 

And who, unchecked by any thought of shame, 

May weep her tears, and call upon his name, 

With burning bosom prest to the cold ground, 

Knowing, indeed, that all her life is crown’d, 

Thrice-crowned, thrice honoured, with that love of his;–

No dearer crown on earth is there, I wis. 
While yet the sweet life lived, more light to bear 

Was my heart’s hunger; when the morn was fair, 

And I with other maidens in a line 

Passed singing through the city to the shrine, 

Oft in the streets or crowded market-place 

I caught swift glimpses of the dear-known face; 

Or marked a stalwart shoulder in the throng; 

Or heard stray speeches as we passed along, 

In tones more dear to me than any song. 

These, hoarded up with care, and kept apart, 

Did serve as meat and drink my hungry heart. 
And now for ever has my sweet love gone; 

And weary, empty days I must drag on, 

Till all the days of all my life be sped, 

By no thought cheered, by no hope comforted. 

For if indeed we meet among the shades, 

How shall he know me from the other maids?– 

Me, that had died to save his body pain! 
Alas, alas, such idle thoughts are vain! 

O cruel, cruel sunlight, get thee gone! 

O dear, dim shades of eve, come swiftly on! 

That when quick lips, keen eyes, are closed in sleep, 

Through the long night till dawn I then may weep.

Poem – A Farewell – Amy Levy

The sad rain falls from Heaven, 

A sad bird pipes and sings ; 

I am sitting here at my window 

And watching the spires of “King’s.” 
O fairest of all fair places, 

Sweetest of all sweet towns! 

With the birds, and the greyness and greenness, 

And the men in caps and gowns. 
All they that dwell within thee, 

To leave are ever loth, 

For one man gets friends, and another 

Gets honour, and one gets both. 
The sad rain falls from Heaven; 

My heart is great with woe– 

I have neither a friend nor honour, 

Yet I am sorry to go.