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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the bare feet of the baby beat across the grass

       The little white feet nod like white flowers in the wind,

       They poise and run like ripples lapping across the water;

       And the sight of their white play among the grass

       Is like a little robin's song, winsome,

       Or as two white butterflies settle in the cup of one flower

       For a moment, then away with a flutter of wings.

       I long for the baby to wander hither to me

       Like a wind-shadow wandering over the water,

       So that she can stand on my knee

       With her little bare feet in my hands,

       Cool like syringa buds,

       Firm and silken like pink young peony flowers.

      Discipline

       Table of Contents

      It is stormy, and raindrops cling like silver bees to the pane,

       The thin sycamores in the playground are swinging with flattened leaves;

       The heads of the boys move dimly through a yellow gloom that stains

       The class; over them all the dark net of my discipline weaves.

       It is no good, dear, gentleness and forbearance, I endured too long.

       I have pushed my hands in the dark soil, under the flower of my soul

       And the gentle leaves, and have felt where the roots are strong

       Fixed in the darkness, grappling for the deep soil's little control.

       And there is the dark, my darling, where the roots are entangled and fight

       Each one for its hold on the oblivious darkness, I know that there

       In the night where we first have being, before we rise on the light,

       We are not brothers, my darling, we fight and we do not spare.

       And in the original dark the roots cannot keep, cannot know

       Any communion whatever, but they bind themselves on to the dark,

       And drawing the darkness together, crush from it a twilight, a slow

       Burning that breaks at last into leaves and a flower's bright spark.

       I came to the boys with love, my dear, but they turned on me;

       I came with gentleness, with my heart 'twixt my hands like a bowl,

       Like a loving-cup, like a grail, but they spilt it triumphantly

       And tried to break the vessel, and to violate my soul.

       But what have I to do with the boys, deep down in my soul, my love?

       I throw from out of the darkness my self like a flower into sight,

       Like a flower from out of the night-time, I lift my face, and those

       Who will may warm their hands at me, comfort this night.

       But whosoever would pluck apart my flowering shall burn their hands,

       So flowers are tender folk, and roots can only hide,

       Yet my flowerings of love are a fire, and the scarlet brands

       Of my love are roses to look at, but flames to chide.

       But comfort me, my love, now the fires are low,

       Now I am broken to earth like a winter destroyed, and all

       Myself but a knowledge of roots, of roots in the dark that throw

       A net on the undersoil, which lies passive beneath their thrall.

       But comfort me, for henceforth my love is yours alone,

       To you alone will I offer the bowl, to you will I give

       My essence only, but love me, and I will atone

       To you for my general loving, atone as long as I live.

      Scent of Irises

       Table of Contents

      A faint, sickening scent of irises

       Persists all morning. Here in a jar on the table

       A fine proud spike of purple irises

       Rising above the class-room litter, makes me unable

       To see the class's lifted and bended faces

       Save in a broken pattern, amid purple and gold and

       sable.

       I can smell the gorgeous bog-end, in its breathless

       Dazzle of may-blobs, when the marigold glare overcast

       you

       With fire on your cheeks and your brow and your

       chin as you dipped

       Your face in the marigold bunch, to touch and contrast

       you,

       Your own dark mouth with the bridal faint lady-smocks,

       Dissolved on the golden sorcery you should not

       outlast.

       You amid the bog-end's yellow incantation,

       You sitting in the cowslips of the meadow above,

       Me, your shadow on the bog-flame, flowery may-blobs,

       Me full length in the cowslips, muttering you love;

       You, your soul like a lady-smock, lost, evanescent,

       You with your face all rich, like the sheen of a

       dove.

       You are always asking, do I remember, remember

       The butter-cup bog-end where the flowers rose up

       And kindled you over deep with a cast of gold?

       You ask again, do the healing

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