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

Чтение книги онлайн.

Читать онлайн книгу The Poetry of D. H. Lawrence - D. H. Lawrence страница 18

Автор:
Серия:
Издательство:
The Poetry of D. H. Lawrence - D. H. Lawrence

Скачать книгу

Handled all my tools and measures

       And masculine machinery?

       Over every single beauty

       You have had your little rapture;

       You have slain, as was your duty,

       Every sin-mouse you could capture.

       Still you are not satisfied,

       Still you tremble faint reproach;

       Challenge me I keep aside

       Secrets that you may not broach.

       Maybe yes, and maybe no,

       Maybe there are secret places, Altars barbarous below, Elsewhere halls of high disgraces. Maybe yes, and maybe no, You may have it as you please, Since I choose to keep you so, Suppliant on your curious knees.

      The Wild Common

       Table of Contents

      The quick sparks on the gorse bushes are leaping,

       Little jets of sunlight-texture imitating flame;

       Above them, exultant, the pee-wits are sweeping:

       They are lords of the desolate wastes of sadness

       their screamings proclaim.

       Rabbits, handfuls of brown earth, lie

       Low-rounded on the mournful grass they have bitten down to the quick.

       Are they asleep?—Are they alive?—Now see, when I

       Move my arms the hill bursts and heaves under their spurting kick.

       The common flaunts bravely; but below, from the

       rushes

       Crowds of glittering king-cups surge to challenge the

       blossoming bushes;

       There the lazy streamlet pushes

       Its curious course mildly; here it wakes again, leaps,

       laughs, and gushes.

       Into a deep pond, an old sheep-dip,

       Dark, overgrown with willows, cool, with the brook

       ebbing through so slow,

       Naked on the steep, soft lip

       Of the bank I stand watching my own white shadow

       quivering to and fro.

       What if the gorse flowers shrivelled and kissing were

       lost?

       Without the pulsing waters, where were the marigolds

       and the songs of the brook?

       If my veins and my breasts with love embossed

       Withered, my insolent soul would be gone like flowers

       that the hot wind took.

       So my soul like a passionate woman turns,

       Filled with remorseful terror to the man she scorned,

       and her love

       For myself in my own eyes' laughter burns,

       Runs ecstatic over the pliant folds rippling down to

       my belly from the breast-lights above.

       Over my sunlit skin the warm, clinging air,

       Rich with the songs of seven larks singing at once,

       goes kissing me glad.

       And the soul of the wind and my blood compare

       Their wandering happiness, and the wind, wasted in

       liberty, drifts on and is sad.

       Oh but the water loves me and folds me,

       Plays with me, sways me, lifts me and sinks me as

       though it were living blood,

       Blood of a heaving woman who holds me,

       Owning my supple body a rare glad thing, supremely

       good.

      Study

       Table of Contents

      Somewhere the long mellow note of the blackbird

       Quickens the unclasping hands of hazel,

       Somewhere the wind-flowers fling their heads back,

       Stirred by an impetuous wind. Some ways'll

       All be sweet with white and blue violet.

       (Hush now, hush. Where am I?—Biuret—) On the green wood's edge a shy girl hovers From out of the hazel-screen on to the grass, Where wheeling and screaming the petulant plovers Wave frighted. Who comes? A labourer, alas! Oh the sunset swims in her eyes' swift pool. (Work, work, you fool—!) Somewhere the lamp hanging low from the ceiling Lights the soft hair of a girl as she reads, And the red firelight steadily wheeling Weaves the hard hands of my friend in sleep. And the white dog snuffs the warmth, appealing For the man to heed lest the girl shall weep. (Tears and dreams for them; for me Bitter science—the exams. are near. I wish I bore it more patiently. I wish you did not wait, my dear, For me to come: since work I must: Though it's all the same when we are dead.— I wish I was only a bust, All head.)

      Discord in Childhood

       Table of Contents

      Outside the house an ash-tree hung its terrible whips,

       And at night when the wind arose, the lash of the tree

       Shrieked and slashed the wind, as a ship's

       Weird rigging in a storm shrieks hideously.

       Within the house two voices arose in anger, a slender lash

       Whistling delirious rage, and the dreadful sound

       Of a thick lash booming and bruising, until it drowned

      

Скачать книгу