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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Are not gold,

       But threaded with filigree,

       And uncanny cold.

       She looks like a young maiden, since her brow

       Is smooth and fair,

       Her cheeks are very smooth, her eyes are closed,

       She sleeps a rare

       Still winsome sleep, so still, and so composed.

       Nay, but she sleeps like a bride, and dreams her

       dreams

       Of perfect things.

       She lies at last, the darling, in the shape of her dream,

       And her dead mouth sings

       By its shape, like the thrushes in clear evenings.

      The Virgin Mother

       Table of Contents

      My little love, my darling,

       You were a doorway to me;

       You let me out of the confines

       Into this strange countrie,

       Where people are crowded like thistles,

       Yet are shapely and comely to see.

       My little love, my dearest

       Twice have you issued me,

       Once from your womb, sweet mother,

       Once from myself, to be

       Free of all hearts, my darling,

       Of each heart's home-life free.

       And so, my love, my mother,

       I shall always be true to you;

       Twice I am born, my dearest,

       To life, and to death, in you;

       And this is the life hereafter

       Wherein I am true.

       I kiss you good-bye, my darling,

       Our ways are different now;

       You are a seed in the night-time,

       I am a man, to plough

       The difficult glebe of the future

       For God to endow.

       I kiss you good-bye, my dearest,

       It is finished between us here.

       Oh, if I were calm as you are,

       Sweet and still on your bier!

       God, if I had not to leave you

       Alone, my dear!

       Let the last word be uttered,

       Oh grant the farewell is said!

       Spare me the strength to leave you

       Now you are dead.

       I must go, but my soul lies helpless

       Beside your bed.

      At the Window

       Table of Contents

      The pine-trees bend to listen to the autumn wind as it mutters

       Something which sets the black poplars ashake with hysterical laughter;

       While slowly the house of day is closing its eastern shutters.

       Further down the valley the clustered tombstones recede,

       Winding about their dimness the mist's grey cerements, after

       The street lamps in the darkness have suddenly started to bleed.

       The leaves fly over the window and utter a word as they pass

       To the face that leans from the darkness, intent, with two dark-filled eyes

       That watch for ever earnestly from behind the window glass.

      Drunk

       Table of Contents

      Too far away, oh love, I know,

       To save me from this haunted road,

       Whose lofty roses break and blow

       On a night-sky bent with a load

       Of lights: each solitary rose,

       Each arc-lamp golden does expose

       Ghost beyond ghost of a blossom, shows

       Night blenched with a thousand snows.

       Of hawthorn and of lilac trees,

       White lilac; shows discoloured night

       Dripping with all the golden lees

       Laburnum gives back to light

       And shows the red of hawthorn set

       On high to the purple heaven of night,

       Like flags in blenched blood newly wet,

       Blood shed in the noiseless fight.

       Of life for love and love for life,

       Of hunger for a little food,

       Of kissing, lost for want of a wife

       Long ago, long ago wooed.

       . . . . . .

       Too far away you are, my love,

       To steady my brain in this phantom show

       That passes the nightly road above

       And returns again below.

       The enormous cliff of horse-chestnut trees

       Has poised on each of its ledges

      

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