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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Of tongues, so the shadows tell

       Me things, and silences toss

       Me their drift.

       You sent me a cloven fire

       Out of death, and it burns in the draught

       Of the breathing hosts,

       Kindles the darkening pyre

       For the sorrowful, till strange brands waft

       Like candid ghosts.

       Form after form, in the streets

       Waves like a ghost along,

       Kindled to me;

       The star above the house-top greets

       Me every eve with a long

       Song fierily.

       All day long, the town

       Glimmers with subtle ghosts

       Going up and down

       In a common, prison-like dress;

       But their daunted looking flickers

       To me, and I answer, Yes!

       So I am not lonely nor sad

       Although bereaved of you,

       My little love.

       I move among a kinsfolk clad

       With words, but the dream shows through

       As they move.

      Silence

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      Since I lost you I am silence-haunted,

       Sounds wave their little wings

       A moment, then in weariness settle

       On the flood that soundless swings.

       Whether the people in the street

       Like pattering ripples go by,

       Or whether the theatre sighs and sighs

       With a loud, hoarse sigh:

       Or the wind shakes a ravel of light

       Over the dead-black river,

       Or night's last echoing

       Makes the daybreak shiver:

       I feel the silence waiting

       To take them all up again

       In its vast completeness, enfolding

       The sound of men.

      Listening

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      I listen to the stillness of you,

       My dear, among it all;

       I feel your silence touch my words as I talk,

       And take them in thrall.

       My words fly off a forge

       The length of a spark;

       I see the night-sky easily sip them

       Up in the dark.

       The lark sings loud and glad,

       Yet I am not loth

       That silence should take the song and the bird

       And lose them both.

       A train goes roaring south,

       The steam-flag flying;

       I see the stealthy shadow of silence

       Alongside going.

       And off the forge of the world,

       Whirling in the draught of life,

       Go sparks of myriad people, filling

       The night with strife.

       Yet they never change the darkness

       Or blench it with noise;

       Alone on the perfect silence

       The stars are buoys.

      Brooding Grief

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      A yellow leaf from the darkness

       Hops like a frog before me.

       Why should I start and stand still?

       I was watching the woman that bore me

       Stretched in the brindled darkness

       Of the sick-room, rigid with will

       To die: and the quick leaf tore me

       Back to this rainy swill

       Of leaves and lamps and traffic mingled before me.

      Lotus Hurt by the Cold

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      How many times, like lotus lilies risen

       Upon the surface of a river, there

       Have risen floating on my blood the rare

       Soft glimmers of my hope escaped from prison.

       So I am clothed all over with the light

       And sensitive beautiful blossoming of passion;

       Till naked for her in the finest fashion

       The flowers of all my mud swim into sight.

       And then I offer all myself unto

      

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