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

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the marriage ring you wear,

       And what it's worth.

       The angels came to Abraham, and they stayed

       In his house awhile;

       So you to mine, I imagine; yes, happily

       Condescend to be vile.

       I see you all the time, you bird-blithe, lovely

       Angel in disguise.

       I see right well how I ought to be grateful,

       Smitten with reverent surprise.

       Listen, I have no use

       For so rare a visit;

       Mine is a common devil's

       Requisite.

       Rise up and go, I have no use for you

       And your blithe, glad mien.

       No angels here, for me no goddesses,

       Nor any Queen.

       Put ashes on your head, put sackcloth on

       And learn to serve.

       You have fed me with your sweetness, now I am sick,

       As I deserve.

       Queens, ladies, angels, women rare,

       I have had enough.

       Put sackcloth on, be crowned with powdery ash,

       Be common stuff.

       And serve now woman, serve, as a woman should,

       Implicitly.

       Since I must serve and struggle with the imminent

       Mystery.

       Serve then, I tell you, add your strength to mine

       Take on this doom.

       What are you by yourself, do you think, and what

       The mere fruit of your womb?

       What is the fruit of your womb then, you mother,

       you queen,

       When it falls to the ground?

       Is it more than the apples of Sodom you scorn so,

       the men

       Who abound?

       Bring forth the sons of your womb then, and put

       them

       Into the fire

       Of Sodom that covers the earth; bring them forth

       From the womb of your precious desire.

       You woman most holy, you mother, you being

       beyond

       Question or diminution,

       Add yourself up, and your seed, to the nought

       Of your last solution.

      Both Sides of the Medal

       Table of Contents

      AND because you love me

       think you you do not hate me?

       Ha, since you love me

       to ecstasy

       it follows you hate me to ecstasy.

       Because when you hear me

       go down the road outside the house

       you must come to the window to watch me go,

       do you think it is pure worship?

       Because, when I sit in the room,

       here, in my own house,

       and you want to enlarge yourself with this friend of

       mine,

       such a friend as he is,

       yet you cannot get beyond your awareness of me

       you are held back by my being in the same world

       with you,

       do you think it is bliss alone?

       sheer harmony?

       No doubt if I were dead, you must

       reach into death after me,

       but would not your hate reach even more madly

       than your love?

       your impassioned, unfinished hate?

       Since you have a passion for me,

       as I for you,

       does not that passion stand in your way like a

       Balaam's ass?

       and am I not Balaam's ass

       golden-mouthed occasionally?

       But mostly, do you not detest my bray?

       Since you are confined in the orbit of me

       do you not loathe the confinement?

       Is not even the beauty and peace of an orbit

       an intolerable prison to you,

       as it is to everybody?

       But we will learn to submit

       each of us to the balanced, eternal orbit

       wherein we circle on our fate

       in strange conjunction.

       What is chaos, my love?

       It is not freedom.

       A disarray of falling stars coming to nought.

      Loggerheads

       Table of Contents

      PLEASE yourself how you have it.

       Take my words, and fling

       Them down on the counter roundly;

       See if they ring.

       Sift my looks and expressions,

       And see what proportion there is

       Of sand in my doubtful sugar

       Of verities.

       Have a real stock-taking

       Of my manly breast;

       Find out if I'm sound or bankrupt,

       Or a poor thing at best.

       For I am quite indifferent

       To your dubious state,

       As to whether you've found a fortune

       In me, or a flea-bitten fate.

       Make a good investigation

       Of all that is there,

       And then, if it's worth it, be grateful—

       If not then despair.

       If despair is our portion

       Then let us despair.

       Let us make for the weeping willow.

       I don't care.

      December Night

       Table of Contents

      TAKE off your cloak and your hat

       And your shoes, and draw up at my hearth

       Where never woman sat.

       I have made

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