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

So green

       The great star goes!

       I am washed quite clean,

       Quite clean of it all.

       But e'en

       So cold, so cold and clean

       Now the hate is gone!

       It is all no good,

       I am chilled to the bone

       Now the hate is gone;

       There is nothing left;

       I am pure like bone,

       Of all feeling bereft.

      A BAD BEGINNING THE yellow sun steps over the mountain-top And falters a few short steps across the lake— Are you awake? See, glittering on the milk-blue, morning lake They are laying the golden racing-track of the sun; The day has begun. The sun is in my eyes, I must get up. I want to go, there's a gold road blazes before My breast—which is so sore. What?—your throat is bruised, bruised with my kisses? Ah, but if I am cruel what then are you? I am bruised right through. What if I love you!—This misery Of your dissatisfaction and misprision Stupefies me. Ah yes, your open arms! Ah yes, ah yes, You would take me to your breast!—But no, You should come to mine, It were better so. Here I am—get up and come to me! Not as a visitor either, nor a sweet And winsome child of innocence; nor As an insolent mistress telling my pulse's beat. Come to me like a woman coming home To the man who is her husband, all the rest Subordinate to this, that he and she Are joined together for ever, as is best. Behind me on the lake I hear the steamer drumming From Austria. There lies the world, and here Am I. Which way are you coming?

      Why Does She Weep?

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      HUSH then

       why do you cry?

       It's you and me

       the same as before.

       If you hear a rustle

       it's only a rabbit

       gone back to his hole

       in a bustle.

       If something stirs in the branches

       overhead, it will be a squirrel moving

       uneasily, disturbed by the stress

       of our loving.

       Why should you cry then?

       Are you afraid of God

       in the dark?

       I'm not afraid of God.

       Let him come forth.

       If he is hiding in the cover

       let him come forth.

       Now in the cool of the day

       it is we who walk in the trees

       and call to God "Where art thou?"

       And it is he who hides.

       Why do you cry?

       My heart is bitter.

       Let God come forth to justify

       himself now.

       Why do you cry?

       Is it Wehmut, ist dir weh?

       Weep then, yea

       for the abomination of our old righteousness,

       We have done wrong

       many times;

       but this time we begin to do right.

       Weep then, weep

       for the abomination of our past righteousness.

       God will keep

       hidden, he won't come forth.

      Giorno Dei Morti

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      ALONG the avenue of cypresses

       All in their scarlet cloaks, and surplices

       Of linen go the chanting choristers,

       The priests in gold and black, the villagers. . . .

       And all along the path to the cemetery

       The round dark heads of men crowd silently,

       And black-scarved faces of women-folk, wistfully

       Watch at the banner of death, and the mystery.

       And at the foot of a grave a father stands

       With sunken head, and forgotten, folded hands;

       And at the foot of a grave a mother kneels

       With pale shut face, nor either hears nor feels

       The coming of the chanting choristers

       Between the avenue of cypresses,

       The silence of the many villagers,

       The candle-flames beside the surplices.

      All Souls

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      THEY are chanting now the service of All the Dead

       And the village folk outside in the burying ground

       Listen—except those who strive with their dead,

       Reaching out in anguish, yet unable quite to

       touch them:

       Those villagers isolated at the grave

       Where the candles burn in the daylight, and the

       painted wreaths

       Are propped on end, there, where the mystery

       starts.

       The naked candles burn on every grave.

       On your grave, in England, the weeds grow.

       But I am your naked candle burning,

       And that is not your grave, in England,

       The world is your grave.

       And my naked body standing on your grave

       Upright towards heaven is burning off to you

       Its flame of life, now and always, till the end.

       It is my offering to you; every day is All Souls'

       Day.

       I forget you, have forgotten you.

       I am busy only at my burning,

       I am busy only at my life.

       But my feet are on your grave, planted.

       And when I lift my face, it is a flame that goes up

       To the other world, where you are now.

       But I am not concerned with you.

       I have forgotten you.

       I am a naked candle burning on your grave.

      Lady Wife

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      AH yes, I know you well, a sojourner

       At the hearth;

       I know right