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

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Roars like a beast in a cave

       That is wounded there

       And like to drown;

       While days rush, wave after wave

       On its lair.

       An invisible woe unseals

       The flood, so it passes beyond

       All bounds: the great old city

       Recumbent roars as it feels

       The foamy paw of the pond

       Reach from immensity.

       But all that it can do

       Now, as the tide rises,

       Is to listen and hear the grim

       Waves crash like thunder through

       The splintered streets, hear noises

       Roll hollow in the interim.

      Coming Awake

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      WHEN I woke, the lake-lights were quivering on the wall,

       The sunshine swam in a shoal across and across,

       And a hairy, big bee hung over the primulas

       In the window, his body black fur, and the sound of him cross.

       There was something I ought to remember: and yet

       I did not remember. Why should I? The running lights

       And the airy primulas, oblivious

       Of the impending bee—they were fair enough sights.

      From a College Window

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      THE glimmer of the limes, sun-heavy, sleeping,

       Goes trembling past me up the College wall.

       Below, the lawn, in soft blue shade is keeping,

       The daisy-froth quiescent, softly in thrall.

       Beyond the leaves that overhang the street,

       Along the flagged, clean pavement summer-white,

       Passes the world with shadows at their feet

       Going left and right.

       Remote, although I hear the beggar's cough,

       See the woman's twinkling fingers tend him a coin,

       I sit absolved, assured I am better off

       Beyond a world I never want to join.

      Flapper

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      LOVE has crept out of her sealéd heart

       As a field-bee, black and amber,

       Breaks from the winter-cell, to clamber

       Up the warm grass where the sunbeams start.

       Mischief has come in her dawning eyes,

       And a glint of coloured iris brings

       Such as lies along the folded wings

       Of the bee before he flies.

       Who, with a ruffling, careful breath,

       Has opened the wings of the wild young sprite?

       Has fluttered her spirit to stumbling flight

       In her eyes, as a young bee stumbleth?

       Love makes the burden of her voice.

       The hum of his heavy, staggering wings

       Sets quivering with wisdom the common things

       That she says, and her words rejoice.

      Birdcage Walk

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      WHEN the wind blows her veil

       And uncovers her laughter

       I cease, I turn pale.

       When the wind blows her veil

       From the woes I bewail

       Of love and hereafter:

       When the wind blows her veil

       I cease, I turn pale.

      Letter from Town: The

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      ALMOND TREE

      YOU promised to send me some violets. Did you forget?

       White ones and blue ones from under the orchard hedge?

       Sweet dark purple, and white ones mixed for a pledge

       Of our early love that hardly has opened yet.

       Here there's an almond tree—you have never seen

       Such a one in the north—it flowers on the street, and I stand

       Every day by the fence to look up for the flowers that expand

       At rest in the blue, and wonder at what they mean.

       Under the almond tree, the happy lands

       Provence, Japan, and Italy repose,

       And passing feet are chatter and clapping of those

       Who play around us, country girls clapping their hands.

       You, my love, the foremost, in a flowered gown,

       All your unbearable tenderness, you with the laughter

       Startled upon your eyes now so wide with here-after,

       You with loose hands of abandonment hanging down.

      Flat Suburbs, S.W., In The

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      MORNING

      THE new red houses spring like plants

       In level rows

       Of reddish herbage that bristles and slants

       Its square shadows.

       The pink young houses show one side bright

       Flatly assuming the sun,

       And one side shadow, half in sight,

       Half-hiding the pavement-run;

       Where hastening creatures pass intent

       On their level way,

       Threading like ants that can never relent

       And have nothing to say.

       Bare stems of street-lamps stiffly stand

       At random, desolate twigs,

       To testify to a blight on the land

       That has stripped their sprigs.

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