Amy Levy poem imagining a dead beloved walking through Victorian London's Jewish quarter.
HOW like her ! But 'tis she herself,
Comes up the crowded street,
How little did I think, the morn,
My only love to meet !
Whose else that motion and that mien?
Whose else that airy tread ?
For one strange moment I forgot
My only love was dead.
Page numbers in original volume