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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      Patience

       Table of Contents

      A wind comes from the north

       Blowing little flocks of birds

       Like spray across the town,

       And a train, roaring forth,

       Rushes stampeding down

       With cries and flying curds

       Of steam, out of the darkening north.

       Whither I turn and set

       Like a needle steadfastly,

       Waiting ever to get

       The news that she is free;

       But ever fixed, as yet,

       To the lode of her agony.

      Ballad of Another Ophelia

       Table of Contents

      Oh the green glimmer of apples in the orchard,

       Lamps in a wash of rain!

       Oh the wet walk of my brown hen through the stack-yard,

       Oh tears on the window pane!

       Nothing now will ripen the bright green apples,

       Full of disappointment and of rain,

       Brackish they will taste, of tears, when the yellow dapples

       Of autumn tell the withered tale again.

       All round the yard it is cluck, my brown hen,

       Cluck, and the rain-wet wings,

       Cluck, my marigold bird, and again

       Cluck for your yellow darlings.

       For the grey rat found the gold thirteen

       Huddled away in the dark,

       Flutter for a moment, oh the beast is quick and keen,

       Extinct one yellow-fluffy spark.

       Once I had a lover bright like running water,

       Once his face was laughing like the sky;

       Open like the sky looking down in all its laughter

       On the buttercups, and the buttercups was I.

       What, then, is there hidden in the skirts of all the blossom?

       What is peeping from your wings, oh mother hen?

       'Tis the sun who asks the question, in a lovely haste for wisdom;

       What a lovely haste for wisdom is in men!

       Yea, but it is cruel when undressed is all the blossom,

       And her shift is lying white upon the floor,

       That a grey one, like a shadow, like a rat, a thief, a rain-storm,

       Creeps upon her then and gathers in his store.

       Oh the grey garner that is full of half-grown apples,

       Oh the golden sparkles laid extinct!

       And oh, behind the cloud-sheaves, like yellow autumn dapples,

       Did you see the wicked sun that winked!

      Restlessness

       Table of Contents

      AT the open door of the room I stand and look at the night,

       Hold my hand to catch the raindrops, that slant into sight,

       Arriving grey from the darkness above suddenly into the light of the room.

       I will escape from the hollow room, the box of light,

       And be out in the bewildering darkness, which is always fecund, which might

       Mate my hungry soul with a germ of its womb.

       I will go out to the night, as a man goes down to the shore

       To draw his net through the surfs thin line, at the dawn before

       The sun warms the sea, little, lonely and sad, sifting the sobbing tide.

       I will sift the surf that edges the night, with my net, the four

       Strands of my eyes and my lips and my hands and my feet, sifting the store

       Of flotsam until my soul is tired or satisfied.

       I will catch in my eyes' quick net

       The faces of all the women as they go past,

       Bend over them with my soul, to cherish the wet

       Cheeks and wet hair a moment, saying: "Is it you?"

       Looking earnestly under the dark umbrellas, held fast

       Against the wind; and if, where the lamplight blew

       Its rainy swill about us, she answered me

       With a laugh and a merry wildness that it was she

       Who was seeking me, and had found me at last to free

       Me now from the stunting bonds of my chastity,

       How glad I should be!

       Moving along in the mysterious ebb of the night

       Pass the men whose eyes are shut like anemones in a dark pool;

       Why don't they open with vision and speak to me, what have they in sight?

       Why do I wander aimless among them, desirous fool?

       I can always linger over the huddled books on the stalls,

       Always gladden my amorous fingers with the touch of their leaves,

       Always kneel in courtship to the shelves in the doorways, where falls

       The shadow, always offer myself to one mistress, who always receives.

       But oh, it is not enough, it is all no

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