Thy sharp wit, thy perfect calm, Thy thin palm like foam o' the sea; Thy white neck, thy blue eye, I shall not die for thee. Woman, graceful as the swan, A wise man did nurture me. Little palm, white neck, bright eye, I shall not die for ye. _Amy Levy_ Amy Levy, a singularly gifted Jewess, was born at Clapham, in 1861. A fiery young poet, she burdened her own intensity with the sorrows of her race. She wrote one novel, _Reuben Sachs_, and two volumes of poetry--the more distinctive of the two being half-pathetically and half-ironically entitled _A Minor Poet_ (1884). After several years of brooding introspection, she committed suicide in 1889 at the age of 28. EPITAPH (_On a commonplace person who died in bed_) This is the end of him, here he lies: The dust in his throat, the worm in his eyes, The mould in his mouth, the turf on his breast; This is the end of him, this is best. He will never lie on his couch awake, Wide-eyed, tearless, till dim daybreak. Never again will he smile and smile When his heart is breaking all the while. He will never stretch out his hands in vain Groping and groping--never again. Never ask for bread, get a stone instead, Never pretend that the stone is bread; Nor sway and sway 'twixt the false and true, Weighing and noting the long hours through. Never ache and ache with the choked-up sighs; This is the end of him, here he lies. IN THE MILE END ROAD How like her! But 'tis she herself, Comes up the crowded street, How little did I think, the morn, My only love to meet! Who else that motion and that mien? Whose else that airy tread? For one strange moment I forgot My only love was dead. _Katharine Tynan Hinkson_ Katharine Tynan was born at Dublin in 1861, and educated at the Convent of St. Catherine at Drogheda. She married Henry Hinkson, a lawyer and author, in 1893. Her poetry is largely actuated by religious themes, and much of her verse is devotional and yet distinctive. In _New Poems_ (1911) she is at her best; graceful, meditative and with occasional notes of deep pathos. SHEEP AND LAMBS All in the April morning, April airs were abroad; The sheep with their little lambs Pass'd me by on the road. The sheep with their little lambs Pass'd me by on the road; All in an April evening I thought on the Lamb of God. The lambs were weary, and crying With a weak human cry; I thought on the Lamb of God Going meekly to die. Up in the blue, blue mountains Dewy pastures are sweet: Rest for the little bodies, Rest for the little feet. Rest for the Lamb of God Up on the hill-top green; Only a cross of shame Two stark crosses between.