Epitaph in a Church-Yard in Charleston, South Carolina

Amy Lowell - 1874-1925
                 GEORGE  AUGUSTUS  CLOUGH
                  A NATIVE OF LIVERPOOL,
            DIED SUDDENLY OF "STRANGER'S FEVER"
                      NOV'R 5th 1843
                          AGED 22

He died of "Stranger's Fever" when his youth 
Had scarcely melted into manhood, so 
The chiselled legend runs; a brother's woe 
Laid bare for epitaph. The savage ruth 
Of a sunny, bright, but alien land, uncouth 
With cruel caressing dealt a mortal blow, 
And by this summer sea where flowers grow 
In tropic splendor, witness to the truth 
Of ineradicable race he lies. 
The law of duty urged that he should roam, 
Should sail from fog and chilly airs to skies 
Clear with deceitful welcome. He had come 
With proud resolve, but still his lonely eyes 
Ached with fatigue at never seeing home. 

More by Amy Lowell

A London Thoroughfare. 2 A.M.


They have watered the street,
It shines in the glare of lamps, 
Cold, white lamps, 
And lies
Like a slow-moving river,
Barred with silver and black.
Cabs go down it,
One,
And then another,
Between them I hear the shuffling of feet.
Tramps doze on the window-ledges,
Night-walkers pass along the sidewalks.
The city is squalid and sinister,
With the silver-barred street in the midst,
Slow-moving,
A river leading nowhere.

Opposite my window,
The moon cuts,
Clear and round,
Through the plum-coloured night.
She cannot light the city:
It is too bright.
It has white lamps,
And glitters coldly.

I stand in the window and watch the
   moon.
She is thin and lustreless,
But I love her.
I know the moon, 
And this is an alien city.

Opal

You are ice and fire,
The touch of you burns my hands like snow.
You are cold and flame.
You are the crimson of amaryllis,
The silver of moon-touched magnolias.
When I am with you,
My heart is a frozen pond
Gleaming with agitated torches.

The Taxi

When I go away from you
The world beats dead 
Like a slackened drum.
I call out for you against the jutted stars
And shout into the ridges of the wind.
Streets coming fast,
One after the other,
Wedge you away from me,
And the lamps of the city prick my eyes
So that I can no longer see your face.
Why should I leave you,
To wound myself upon the sharp edges of the night?