The Poetry of D. H. Lawrence. D. H. Lawrence

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The Poetry of D. H. Lawrence - D. H. Lawrence

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style="font-size:15px;">       My top of life, that buds on high

       Amid the high wind’s enterprise.

       They all do clothe my ungrowing life

       With a rich, a thrilled young clasp of life;

       A clutch of attachment, like parenthood,

       Mounts up to my heart, and I find it good.

      And I lift my head upon the troubled tangled world, and though the pain

       Of living my life were doubled, I still have this to comfort and sustain,

       I have such swarming sense of lives at the base of me, such sense of lives

       Clustering upon me, reaching up, as each after the other strives

       To follow my life aloft to the fine wild air of life and the storm of thought,

       And though I scarcely see the boys, or know that they are there, distraught

       As I am with living my life in earnestness, still progressively and alone,

       Though they cling, forgotten the most part, not companions, scarcely known

       To me—yet still because of the sense of their closeness clinging densely to me,

       And slowly fingering up my stem and following all tinily

       The way that I have gone and now am leading, they are dear to me.

      They keep me assured, and when my soul feels lonely,

       All mistrustful of thrusting its shoots where only

       I alone am living, then it keeps

       Me comforted to feel the warmth that creeps

       Up dimly from their striving; it heartens my strife:

       And when my heart is chill with loneliness,

       Then comforts it the creeping tenderness

       Of all the strays of life that climb my life.

      III

       Afternoon in School

       Table of Contents

      The Last Lesson

      When will the bell ring, and end this weariness?

       How long have they tugged the leash, and strained apart

       My pack of unruly hounds: I cannot start

       Them again on a quarry of knowledge they hate to hunt,

       I can haul them and urge them no more.

       No more can I endure to bear the brunt

       Of the books that lie out on the desks: a full three score

       Of several insults of blotted page and scrawl

       Of slovenly work that they have offered me.

       I am sick, and tired more than any thrall

       Upon the woodstacks working weariedly.

      And shall I take

       The last dear fuel and heap it on my soul

       Till I rouse my will like a fire to consume

       Their dross of indifference, and burn the scroll

       Of their insults in punishment?—I will not!

       I will not waste myself to embers for them,

       Not all for them shall the fires of my life be hot,

       For myself a heap of ashes of weariness, till sleep

       Shall have raked the embers clear: I will keep

       Some of my strength for myself, for if I should sell

       It all for them, I should hate them—

       —I will sit and wait for the bell.

      Amores

       Table of Contents

       Tease

       The Wild Common

       Study

       Discord in Childhood

       Virgin Youth

       Monologue of a Mother

       In a Boat

       Week-night Service

       Irony

       Dreams Old and Nascent

       Dreams Old and Nascent

       A Winter's Tale

       Epilogue

       A Baby Running Barefoot

       Discipline

       Scent of Irises

       The Prophet

       Last Words to Miriam

      

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