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

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      Thief in the Night

       Table of Contents

      LAST night a thief came to me

       And struck at me with something dark.

       I cried, but no one could hear me,

       I lay dumb and stark.

       When I awoke this morning

       I could find no trace;

       Perhaps 'twas a dream of warning,

       For I've lost my peace.

      Letter From Town: On A

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      GREY EVENING IN MARCH

      THE clouds are pushing in grey reluctance slowly

       northward to you,

       While north of them all, at the farthest ends,

       stands one bright-bosomed, aglance

       With fire as it guards the wild north cloud-coasts,

       red-fire seas running through

       The rocks where ravens flying to windward melt

       as a well-shot lance.

       You should be out by the orchard, where violets

       secretly darken the earth,

       Or there in the woods of the twilight, with

       northern wind-flowers shaken astir.

       Think of me here in the library, trying and trying

       a song that is worth

       Tears and swords to my heart, arrows no armour

       will turn or deter.

       You tell me the lambs have come, they lie like

       daisies white in the grass

       Of the dark-green hills; new calves in shed;

       peewits turn after the plough—

       It is well for you. For me the navvies work in the

       road where I pass

       And I want to smite in anger the barren rock of

       each waterless brow.

       Like the sough of a wind that is caught up high in

       the mesh of the budding trees,

       A sudden car goes sweeping past, and I strain my

       soul to hear

       The voice of the furtive triumphant engine as it

       rushes past like a breeze,

       To hear on its mocking triumphance unwitting

       the after-echo of fear.

      Suburbs on a Hazy Day

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      O STIFFLY shapen houses that change not,

       What conjuror's cloth was thrown across you,

       and raised

       To show you thus transfigured, changed,

       Your stuff all gone, your menace almost rased?

       Such resolute shapes, so harshly set

       In hollow blocks and cubes deformed, and heaped

       In void and null profusion, how is this?

       In what strong aqua regia now are you steeped? That you lose the brick-stuff out of you And hover like a presentment, fading faint And vanquished, evaporate away To leave but only the merest possible taint!

      Hyde Park At Night, Before

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      THE WAR

      Clerks.

      WE have shut the doors behind us, and the velvet

       flowers of night

       Lean about us scattering their pollen grains of

       golden light.

       Now at last we lift our faces, and our faces come

       aflower

       To the night that takes us willing, liberates us to the

       hour.

       Now at last the ink and dudgeon passes from our

       fervent eyes

       And out of the chambered weariness wanders a

       spirit abroad on its enterprise.

       Not too near and not too far

       Out of the stress of the crowd

       Music screams as elephants scream

       When they lift their trunks and scream aloud

       For joy of the night when masters are

       Asleep and adream.

       So here I hide in the Shalimar

       With a wanton princess slender and proud,

       And we swoon with kisses, swoon till we seem

       Two streaming peacocks gone in a cloud

       Of golden dust, with star after star

       On our stream.

      Gipsy

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      I, THE man with the red scarf,

       Will give thee what I have, this last week's earnings.

       Take them, and buy thee a silver ring

       And wed me, to ease my yearnings.

       For the rest, when thou art wedded

       I'll wet my brow for thee

       With sweat, I'll enter a house for thy sake,

       Thou shalt shut doors on me.

      Two-fold

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      How gorgeous that shock of red lilies, and larkspur

       cleaving

       All with a flash of blue!—when will she be leaving

       Her room, where the night still hangs like a half-

       folded bat,

       And passion unbearable seethes in the darkness, like

       must in a vat.

      Under the Oak

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      You, if you were sensible,

       When I tell you the stars flash signals, each one

       dreadful,

      

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