Mirage

Amy Lowell - 1874-1925
          How is it that, being gone, you fill my days,
           And all the long nights are made glad by thee?
           No loneliness is this, nor misery,
          But great content that these should be the ways
          Whereby the Fancy, dreaming as she strays,
           Makes bright and present what she would would be.
           And who shall say if the reality
          Is not with dreams so pregnant. For delays
           And hindrances may bar the wished-for end;
          A thousand misconceptions may prevent
           Our souls from coming near enough to blend;
          Let me but think we have the same intent,
           That each one needs to call the other, "friend!"
          It may be vain illusion. I'm content.

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?