The Project Gutenberg eBook of New Poems, by D. H. Lawrence

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Title: New Poems

Author: D. H. Lawrence

Release Date: September 22, 2007 [EBook #22726]

Language: English

Credits: Etext produced by Lewis Jones HTML file produced by David Widger

*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ***

NEW POEMS

By D. H. Lawrence

London: Martin Seeker

1918

TO

AMY LOWELL

CONTENTS

APPREHENSION

COMING AWAKE

FROM A COLLEGE WINDOW

FLAPPER

BIRDCAGE WALK

LETTER FROM TOWN: THE

FLAT SUBURBS, S.W., IN THE

THIEF IN THE NIGHT

LETTER FROM TOWN: ON A

SUBURBS ON A HAZY DAY

HYDE PARK AT NIGHT, BEFORE

GIPSY

TWO-FOLD

UNDER THE OAK

SIGH NO MORE

LOVE STORM

PARLIAMENT HILL IN THE

PICCADILLY CIRCUS AT NIGHT

TARANTELLA

IN CHURCH

PIANO

EMBANKMENT AT NIGHT,

PHANTASMAGORIA

NEXT MORNING

PALIMPSEST OF TWILIGHT

EMBANKMENT AT NIGHT,

WINTER IN THE BOULEVARD

SCHOOL ON THE OUTSKIRTS

SICKNESS

EVERLASTING FLOWERS

THE NORTH COUNTRY

BITTERNESS OF DEATH

SEVEN SEALS

READING A LETTER

TWENTY YEARS AGO

INTIME

TWO WIVES

HEIMWEH

DEBACLE

NARCISSUS

AUTUMN SUNSHINE

ON THAT DAY

APPREHENSION

AND all hours long, the town

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

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 run-

ning lights

And the airy primulas, oblivious

Of the impending bee—they were fair enough

sights.

FROM A COLLEGE WINDOW

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

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

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

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

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.

THIEF IN THE NIGHT

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

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

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

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

I, THE man with the red scarf,

Will give thee what I have, this last week's earn-

ings.

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

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

You, if you were sensible,

When I tell you the stars flash signals, each one

dreadful,

You would not turn and answer me

"The night is wonderful."

Even you, if you knew

How this darkness soaks me through and through,

and infuses

Unholy fear in my vapour, you would pause to dis-

tinguish

What hurts, from what amuses.

For I tell you

Beneath this powerful tree, my whole soul's fluid

Oozes away from me as a sacrifice steam

At the knife of a Druid.

Again I tell you, I bleed, I am bound with withies,

My life runs out.

I tell you my blood runs out on the floor of this oak,

Gout upon gout.

Above me springs the blood-born mistletoe

In the shady smoke.

But who are you, twittering to and fro

Beneath the oak?

What thing better are you, what worse?

What have you to do with the mysteries

Of this ancient place, of my ancient curse?

What place have you in my histories?

SIGH NO MORE

THE cuckoo and the coo-dove's ceaseless calling,

Calling,

Of a meaningless monotony is palling

All my morning's pleasure in the sun-fleck-scattered

wood.

May-blossom and blue bird's-eye flowers falling,

Falling

In a litter through the elm-tree shade are scrawling

Messages of true-love down the dust of the high-

road.

I do not like to hear the gentle grieving,

Grieving

Of the she-dove in the blossom, still believing

Love will yet again return to her and make all good.

When I know that there must ever be deceiving,

Deceiving

Of the mournful constant heart, that while she's

weaving

Her woes, her lover woos and sings within another

wood.

Oh, boisterous the cuckoo shouts, forestalling,

Stalling

A progress down the intricate enthralling

By-paths where the wanton-headed flowers doff

their hood.

And like a laughter leads me onward, heaving,

Heaving

A sigh among the shadows, thus retrieving

A decent short regret for that which once was very

good.

LOVE STORM

MANY roses in the wind

Are tapping at the window-sash.

A hawk is in the sky; his wings

Slowly begin to plash.

The roses with the west wind rapping

Are torn away, and a splash

Of red goes down the billowing air.

Still hangs the hawk, with the whole sky moving

Past him—only a wing-beat proving

The will that holds him there.

The daisies in the grass are bending,

The hawk has dropped, the wind is spending

All the roses, and unending

Rustle of leaves washes out the rending

Cry of a bird.

A red rose goes on the wind.—Ascending

The hawk his wind-swept way is wending

Easily down the sky. The daisies, sending

Strange white signals, seem intending

To show the place whence the scream was heard.

But, oh, my heart, what birds are piping!

A silver wind is hastily wiping

The face of the youngest rose.

And oh, my heart, cease apprehending!

The hawk is gone, a rose is tapping

The window-sash as the west-wind blows.

Knock, knock, 'tis no more than a red rose rapping,

And fear is a plash of wings.

What, then, if a scarlet rose goes flapping

Down the bright-grey ruin of things!

PARLIAMENT HILL IN THE

EVENING

THE houses fade in a melt of mist

Blotching the thick, soiled air

With reddish places that still resist

The Night's slow care.

The hopeless, wintry twilight fades,

The city corrodes out of sight

As the body corrodes when death invades

That citadel of delight.

Now verdigris smoulderings softly spread

Through the shroud of the town, as slow

Night-lights hither and thither shed

Their ghastly glow.

PICCADILLY CIRCUS AT NIGHT

Street-Walkers.

WHEN into the night the yellow light is roused like

dust above the towns,

Or like a mist the moon has kissed from off a pool in

the midst of the downs,

Our faces flower for a little hour pale and uncertain

along the street,

Daisies that waken all mistaken white-spread in ex-

pectancy to meet

The luminous mist which the poor things wist was

dawn arriving across the sky,

When dawn is far behind the star the dust-lit town

has driven so high.

All the birds are folded in a silent ball of sleep,

All the flowers are faded from the asphalt isle in

the sea,

Only we hard-faced creatures go round and round,

and keep

The shores of this innermost ocean alive and

illusory.

Wanton sparrows that twittered when morning

looked in at their eyes

And the Cyprian's pavement-roses are gone, and

now it is we

Flowers of illusion who shine in our gauds, make a

Paradise

On the shores of this ceaseless ocean, gay birds of

the town-dark sea.

TARANTELLA

SAD as he sits on the white sea-stone

And the suave sea chuckles, and turns to the moon,

And the moon significant smiles at the cliffs and

the boulders.

He sits like a shade by the flood alone

While I dance a tarantella on the rocks, and the

croon

Of my mockery mocks at him over the waves'

bright shoulders.

What can I do but dance alone,

Dance to the sliding sea and the moon,

For the moon on my breast and the air on my limbs

and the foam on my feet?

For surely this earnest man has none

Of the night in his soul, and none of the tune

Of the waters within him; only the world's old

wisdom to bleat.

I wish a wild sea-fellow would come down the

glittering shingle,

A soulless neckar, with winking seas in his eyes

And falling waves in his arms, and the lost soul's kiss

On his lips: I long to be soulless, I tingle

To touch the sea in the last surprise

Of fiery coldness, to be gone in a lost soul's bliss.

IN CHURCH

IN the choir the boys are singing the hymn.

The morning light on their lips

Moves in silver-moist flashes, in musical trim.

Sudden outside the high window, one crow

Hangs in the air

And lights on a withered oak-tree's top of woe.

One bird, one blot, folded and still at the top

Of the withered tree!—in the grail

Of crystal heaven falls one full black drop.

Like a soft full drop of darkness it seems to sway

In the tender wine

Of our Sabbath, suffusing our sacred day.

PIANO

Softly, in the dusk, a woman is singing to me;

Taking me back down the vista of years, till I see

A child sitting under the piano, in the boom of the

tingling strings

And pressing the small, poised feet of a mother who

smiles as she sings.

In spite of myself, the insidious mastery of song

Betrays me back, till the heart of me weeps to belong

To the old Sunday evenings at home, with winter

outside

And hymns in the cosy parlour, the tinkling piano

our guide.

So now it is vain for the singer to burst into clamour

With the great black piano appassionato. The

glamour

Of childish days is upon me, my manhood is cast

Down in the flood of remembrance, I weep like a

child for the past.

EMBANKMENT AT NIGHT,

BEFORE THE WAR

Charity.

BY the river

In the black wet night as the furtive rain slinks

down,

Dropping and starting from sleep

Alone on a seat

A woman crouches.

I must go back to her.

I want to give her

Some money. Her hand slips out of the breast of

her gown

Asleep. My fingers creep

Carefully over the sweet

Thumb-mound, into the palm's deep pouches.

So, the gift!

God, how she starts!

And looks at me, and looks in the palm of her hand!

And again at me!

I turn and run

Down the Embankment, run for my life.

But why?—why?

Because of my heart's

Beating like sobs, I come to myself, and stand

In the street spilled over splendidly

With wet, flat lights. What I've done

I know not, my soul is in strife.

The touch was on the quick. I want to forget.

PHANTASMAGORIA

RIGID sleeps the house in darkness, I alone

Like a thing unwarrantable cross the hall

And climb the stairs to find the group of doors

Standing angel-stern and tall.

I want my own room's shelter. But what is this

Throng of startled beings suddenly thrown

In confusion against my entry? Is it only the trees'

Large shadows from the outside street lamp blown?

Phantom to phantom leaning; strange women weep

Aloud, suddenly on my mind

Startling a fear unspeakable, as the shuddering wind

Breaks and sobs in the blind.

So like to women, tall strange women weeping!

Why continually do they cross the bed?

Why does my soul contract with unnatural fear?

I am listening! Is anything said?

Ever the long black figures swoop by the bed;

They seem to be beckoning, rushing away, and

beckoning.

Whither then, whither, what is it, say

What is the reckoning.

Tall black Bacchae of midnight, why then, why

Do you rush to assail me?

Do I intrude on your rites nocturnal?

What should it avail me?

Is there some great Iacchos of these slopes

Suburban dismal?

Have I profaned some female mystery, orgies

Black and phantasmal?

NEXT MORNING

How have I wandered here to this vaulted room

In the house of life?—the floor was ruffled with gold

Last evening, and she who was softly in bloom,

Glimmered as flowers that in perfume at twilight

unfold

For the flush of the night; whereas now the gloom

Of every dirty, must-besprinkled mould,

And damp old web of misery's heirloom

Deadens this day's grey-dropping arras-fold.

And what is this that floats on the undermist

Of the mirror towards the dusty grate, as if feeling

Unsightly its way to the warmth?—this thing with

a list

To the left? this ghost like a candle swealing?

Pale-blurred, with two round black drops, as if it

missed

Itself among everything else, here hungrily stealing

Upon me!—my own reflection!—explicit gist

Of my presence there in the mirror that leans from

the ceiling!

Then will somebody square this shade with the

being I know

I was last night, when my soul rang clear as a bell

And happy as rain in summer? Why should it be

so?

What is there gone against me, why am I in hell?

PALIMPSEST OF TWILIGHT

DARKNESS comes out of the earth

And swallows dip into the pallor of the west;

From the hay comes the clamour of children's

mirth;

Wanes the old palimpsest.

The night-stock oozes scent,

And a moon-blue moth goes flittering by:

All that the worldly day has meant

Wastes like a lie.

The children have forsaken their play;

A single star in a veil of light

Glimmers: litter of day

Is gone from sight.

EMBANKMENT AT NIGHT,

BEFORE THE WAR

Outcasts.

THE night rain, dripping unseen,

Comes endlessly kissing my face and my hands.

The river, slipping between

Lamps, is rayed with golden bands

Half way down its heaving sides;

Revealed where it hides.

Under the bridge

Great electric cars

Sing through, and each with a floor-light racing

along at its side.

Far off, oh, midge after midge

Drifts over the gulf that bars

The night with silence, crossing the lamp-touched

tide.

At Charing Cross, here, beneath the bridge

Sleep in a row the outcasts,

Packed in a line with their heads against the wall.

Their feet, in a broken ridge

Stretch out on the way, and a lout casts

A look as he stands on the edge of this naked stall.

Beasts that sleep will cover

Their faces in their flank; so these

Have huddled rags or limbs on the naked sleep.

Save, as the tram-cars hover

Past with the noise of a breeze

And gleam as of sunshine crossing the low black heap,

Two naked faces are seen

Bare and asleep,

Two pale clots swept and swept by the light of the

cars.

Foam-clots showing between

The long, low tidal-heap,

The mud-weed opening two pale, shadowless stars.

Over the pallor of only two faces

Passes the gallivant beam of the trams;

Shows in only two sad places

The white bare bone of our shams.

A little, bearded man, pale, peaked in sleeping,

With a face like a chickweed flower.

And a heavy woman, sleeping still keeping

Callous and dour.

Over the pallor of only two places

Tossed on the low, black, ruffled heap

Passes the light of the tram as it races

Out of the deep.

Eloquent limbs

In disarray

Sleep-suave limbs of a youth with long, smooth

thighs

Hutched up for warmth; the muddy rims

Of trousers fray

On the thin bare shins of a man who uneasily lies.

The balls of five red toes

As red and dirty, bare

Young birds forsaken and left in a nest of mud—

Newspaper sheets enclose

Some limbs like parcels, and tear

When the sleeper stirs or turns on the ebb of the

flood—

One heaped mound

Of a woman's knees

As she thrusts them upward under the ruffled skirt—

And a curious dearth of sound

In the presence of these

Wastrels that sleep on the flagstones without any

hurt.

Over two shadowless, shameless faces

Stark on the heap

Travels the light as it tilts in its paces

Gone in one leap.

At the feet of the sleepers, watching,

Stand those that wait

For a place to lie down; and still as they stand,

they sleep,

Wearily catching

The flood's slow gait

Like men who are drowned, but float erect in the

deep.

Oh, the singing mansions,

Golden-lighted tall

Trams that pass, blown ruddily down the night!

The bridge on its stanchions

Stoops like a pall

To this human blight.

On the outer pavement, slowly,

Theatre people pass,

Holding aloft their umbrellas that flash and are

bright

Like flowers of infernal moly

Over nocturnal grass

Wetly bobbing and drifting away on our sight.

And still by the rotten

Row of shattered feet,

Outcasts keep guard.

Forgotten,

Forgetting, till fate shall delete

One from the ward.

The factories on the Surrey side

Are beautifully laid in black on a gold-grey sky.

The river's invisible tide

Threads and thrills like ore that is wealth to the eye.

And great gold midges

Cross the chasm

At the bridges

Above intertwined plasm.

WINTER IN THE BOULEVARD

THE frost has settled down upon the trees

And ruthlessly strangled off the fantasies

Of leaves that have gone unnoticed, swept like old

Romantic stories now no more to be told.

The trees down the boulevard stand naked in

thought,

Their abundant summery wordage silenced, caught

In the grim undertow; naked the trees confront

Implacable winter's long, cross-questioning brunt.

Has some hand balanced more leaves in the depths

of the twigs?

Some dim little efforts placed in the threads of the

birch?—

It is only the sparrows, like dead black leaves on

the sprigs,

Sitting huddled against the cerulean, one flesh with

their perch.

The clear, cold sky coldly bethinks itself.

Like vivid thought the air spins bright, and all

Trees, birds, and earth, arrested in the after-thought

Awaiting the sentence out from the welkin brought.

SCHOOL ON THE OUTSKIRTS

How different, in the middle of snows, the great

school rises red!

A red rock silent and shadowless, clung round

with clusters of shouting lads,

Some few dark-cleaving the doorway, souls that

cling as the souls of the dead

In stupor persist at the gates of life, obstinate

dark monads.

This new red rock in a waste of white rises against

the day

With shelter now, and with blandishment, since

the winds have had their way

And laid the desert horrific of silence and snow on

the world of mankind,

School now is the rock in this weary land the winter

burns and makes blind.

SICKNESS

WAVING slowly before me, pushed into the dark,

Unseen my hands explore the silence, drawing the

bark

Of my body slowly behind.

Nothing to meet my fingers but the fleece of night

Invisible blinding my face and my eyes! What if

in their flight

My hands should touch the door!

What if I suddenly stumble, and push the door

Open, and a great grey dawn swirls over my feet,

before

I can draw back!

What if unwitting I set the door of eternity wide

And am swept away in the horrible dawn, am gone

down the tide

Of eternal hereafter!

Catch my hands, my darling, between your breasts.

Take them away from their venture, before fate

wrests

The meaning out of them.

EVERLASTING FLOWERS

WHO do you think stands watching

The snow-tops shining rosy

In heaven, now that the darkness

Takes all but the tallest posy?

Who then sees the two-winged

Boat down there, all alone

And asleep on the snow's last shadow,

Like a moth on a stone?

The olive-leaves, light as gad-flies,

Have all gone dark, gone black.

And now in the dark my soul to you

Turns back.

To you, my little darling,

To you, out of Italy.

For what is loveliness, my love,

Save you have it with me!

So, there's an oxen wagon

Comes darkly into sight:

A man with a lantern, swinging

A little light.

What does he see, my darling

Here by the darkened lake?

Here, in the sloping shadow

The mountains make?

He says not a word, but passes,

Staring at what he sees.

What ghost of us both do you think he saw

Under the olive trees?

All the things that are lovely—

The things you never knew—

I wanted to gather them one by one

And bring them to you.

But never now, my darling

Can I gather the mountain-tips

From the twilight like half-shut lilies

To hold to your lips.

And never the two-winged vessel

That sleeps below on the lake

Can I catch like a moth between my hands

For you to take.

But hush, I am not regretting:

It is far more perfect now.

I'll whisper the ghostly truth to the world

And tell them how

I know you here in the darkness,

How you sit in the throne of my eyes

At peace, and look out of the windows

In glad surprise.

THE NORTH COUNTRY

IN another country, black poplars shake them-

selves over a pond,

And rooks and the rising smoke-waves scatter and

wheel from the works beyond;

The air is dark with north and with sulphur, the

grass is a darker green,

And people darkly invested with purple move

palpable through the scene.

Soundlessly down across the counties, out of the

resonant gloom

That wraps the north in stupor and purple travels

the deep, slow boom

Of the man-life north-imprisoned, shut in the hum

of the purpled steel

As it spins to sleep on its motion, drugged dense in

the sleep of the wheel.

Out of the sleep, from the gloom of motion, sound-

lessly, somnambule

Moans and booms the soul of a people imprisoned,

asleep in the rule

Of the strong machine that runs mesmeric, booming

the spell of its word

Upon them and moving them helpless, mechanic,

their will to its will deferred.

Yet all the while comes the droning inaudible, out

of the violet air,

The moaning of sleep-bound beings in travail that

toil and are will-less there

In the spell-bound north, convulsive now with a

dream near morning, strong

With violent achings heaving to burst the sleep

that is now not long.

BITTERNESS OF DEATH

I

AH, stern, cold man,

How can you lie so relentless hard

While I wash you with weeping water!

Do you set your face against the daughter

Of life? Can you never discard

Your curt pride's ban?

You masquerader!

How can you shame to act this part

Of unswerving indifference to me?

You want at last, ah me!

To break my heart

Evader!

You know your mouth

Was always sooner to soften

Even than your eyes.

Now shut it lies

Relentless, however often

I kiss it in drouth.

It has no breath

Nor any relaxing. Where,

Where are you, what have you done?

What is this mouth of stone?

How did you dare

Take cover in death!

II

Once you could see,

The white moon show like a breast revealed

By the slipping shawl of stars.

Could see the small stars tremble

As the heart beneath did wield

Systole, diastole.

All the lovely macrocosm

Was woman once to you,

Bride to your groom.

No tree in bloom

But it leaned you a new

White bosom.

And always and ever

Soft as a summering tree

Unfolds from the sky, for your good,

Unfolded womanhood;

Shedding you down as a tree

Sheds its flowers on a river.

I saw your brows

Set like rocks beside a sea of gloom,

And I shed my very soul down into your

thought;

Like flowers I fell, to be caught

On the comforted pool, like bloom

That leaves the boughs.

III

Oh, masquerader,

With a hard face white-enamelled,

What are you now?

Do you care no longer how

My heart is trammelled,

Evader?

Is this you, after all,

Metallic, obdurate

With bowels of steel?

Did you never feel?—

Cold, insensate,

Mechanical!

Ah, no!—you multiform,

You that I loved, you wonderful,

You who darkened and shone,

You were many men in one;

But never this null

This never-warm!

Is this the sum of you?

Is it all nought?

Cold, metal-cold?

Are you all told

Here, iron-wrought?

Is this what's become of you?

SEVEN SEALS

SINCE this is the last night I keep you home,

Come, I will consecrate you for the journey.

Rather I had you would not go. Nay come,

I will not again reproach you. Lie back

And let me love you a long time ere you go.

For you are sullen-hearted still, and lack

The will to love me. But even so

I will set a seal upon you from my lip,

Will set a guard of honour at each door,

Seal up each channel out of which might slip

Your love for me.

I kiss your mouth. Ah, love,

Could I but seal its ruddy, shining spring

Of passion, parch it up, destroy, remove

Its softly-stirring crimson welling-up

Of kisses! Oh, help me, God! Here at the source

I'd lie for ever drinking and drawing in

Your fountains, as heaven drinks from out their

course

The floods.

I close your ears with kisses

And seal your nostrils; and round your neck you'll

wear—

Nay, let me work—a delicate chain of kisses.

Like beads they go around, and not one misses

To touch its fellow on either side.

And there

Full mid-between the champaign of your breast

I place a great and burning seal of love

Like a dark rose, a mystery of rest

On the slow bubbling of your rhythmic heart.

Nay, I persist, and very faith shall keep

You integral to me. Each door, each mystic port

Of egress from you I will seal and steep

In perfect chrism.

Now it is done. The mort

Will sound in heaven before it is undone.

But let me finish what I have begun

And shirt you now invulnerable in the mail

Of iron kisses, kisses linked like steel.

Put greaves upon your thighs and knees, and frail

Webbing of steel on your feet. So you shall feel

Ensheathed invulnerable with me, with seven

Great seals upon your outgoings, and woven

Chain of my mystic will wrapped perfectly

Upon you, wrapped in indomitable me.

READING A LETTER

SHE sits on the recreation ground

Under an oak whose yellow buds dot the pale

blue sky.

The young grass twinkles in the wind, and the sound

Of the wind in the knotted buds in a canopy.

So sitting under the knotted canopy

Of the wind, she is lifted and carried away as in

a balloon

Across the insensible void, till she stoops to see

The sandy desert beneath her, the dreary platoon.

She knows the waste all dry beneath her, in one

place

Stirring with earth-coloured life, ever turning and

stirring.

But never the motion has a human face

Nor sound, save intermittent machinery whirring.

And so again, on the recreation ground

She alights a stranger, wondering, unused to the

scene;

Suffering at sight of the children playing around,

Hurt at the chalk-coloured tulips, and the even-

ing-green.

TWENTY YEARS AGO

ROUND the house were lilacs and strawberries

And foal-foots spangling the paths,

And far away on the sand-hills, dewberries

Caught dust from the sea's long swaths.

Up the wolds the woods were walking,

And nuts fell out of their hair.

At the gate the nets hung, balking

The star-lit rush of a hare.

In the autumn fields, the stubble

Tinkled the music of gleaning.

At a mother's knees, the trouble

Lost all its meaning.

Yea, what good beginnings

To this sad end!

Have we had our innings?

God forfend!

INTIME

RETURNING, I find her just the same,

At just the same old delicate game.

Still she says: "Nay, loose no flame

To lick me up and do me harm!

Be all yourself!—for oh, the charm

Of your heart of fire in which I look!

Oh, better there than in any book

Glow and enact the dramas and dreams

I love for ever!—there it seems

You are lovelier than life itself, till desire

Comes licking through the bars of your lips

And over my face the stray fire slips,

Leaving a burn and an ugly smart

That will have the oil of illusion. Oh, heart

Of fire and beauty, loose no more

Your reptile flames of lust; ah, store

Your passion in the basket of your soul,

Be all yourself, one bonny, burning coal

That stays with steady joy of its own fire.

But do not seek to take me by desire.

Oh, do not seek to thrust on me your fire!

For in the firing all my porcelain

Of flesh does crackle and shiver and break in pain,

My ivory and marble black with stain,

My veil of sensitive mystery rent in twain,

My altars sullied, I, bereft, remain

A priestess execrable, taken in vain—"

So the refrain

Sings itself over, and so the game

Re-starts itself wherein I am kept

Like a glowing brazier faintly blue of flame

So that the delicate love-adept

Can warm her hands and invite her soul,

Sprinkling incense and salt of words

And kisses pale, and sipping the toll

Of incense-smoke that rises like birds.

Yet I've forgotten in playing this game,

Things I have known that shall have no name;

Forgetting the place from which I came

I watch her ward away the flame,

Yet warm herself at the fire—then blame

Me that I flicker in the basket;

Me that I glow not with content

To have my substance so subtly spent;

Me that I interrupt her game.

I ought to be proud that she should ask it

Of me to be her fire-opal—.

It is well

Since I am here for so short a spell

Not to interrupt her?—Why should I

Break in by making any reply!

TWO WIVES

I

INTO the shadow-white chamber silts the white

Flux of another dawn. The wind that all night

Long has waited restless, suddenly wafts

A whirl like snow from the plum-trees and the pear,

Till petals heaped between the window-shafts

In a drift die there.

A nurse in white, at the dawning, flower-foamed

pane

Draws down the blinds, whose shadows scarcely

stain

The white rugs on the floor, nor the silent bed

That rides the room like a frozen berg, its crest

Finally ridged with the austere line of the dead

Stretched out at rest.

Less than a year the fourfold feet had pressed

The peaceful floor, when fell the sword on their rest.

Yet soon, too soon, she had him home again

With wounds between them, and suffering like a

guest

That will not go. Now suddenly going, the pain

Leaves an empty breast.

II

A tall woman, with her long white gown aflow

As she strode her limbs amongst it, once more

She hastened towards the room. Did she know

As she listened in silence outside the silent door?

Entering, she saw him in outline, raised on a pyre

Awaiting the fire.

Upraised on the bed, with feet erect as a bow,

Like the prow of a boat, his head laid back like the

stern

Of a ship that stands in a shadowy sea of snow

With frozen rigging, she saw him; she drooped like

a fern

Refolding, she slipped to the floor as a ghost-white

peony slips

When the thread clips.

Soft she lay as a shed flower fallen, nor heard

The ominous entry, nor saw the other love,

The dark, the grave-eyed mistress who thus dared

At such an hour to lay her claim, above

A stricken wife, so sunk in oblivion, bowed

With misery, no more proud.

III

The stranger's hair was shorn like a lad's dark poll

And pale her ivory face: her eyes would fail

In silence when she looked: for all the whole

Darkness of failure was in them, without avail.

Dark in indomitable failure, she who had lost

Now claimed the host,

She softly passed the sorrowful flower shed

In blonde and white on the floor, nor even turned

Her head aside, but straight towards the bed

Moved with slow feet, and her eyes' flame steadily

burned.

She looked at him as he lay with banded cheek,

And she started to speak

Softly: "I knew it would come to this," she said,

"I knew that some day, soon, I should find you thus.

So I did not fight you. You went your way instead

Of coming mine—and of the two of us

I died the first, I, in the after-life

Am now your wife."

IV

"'Twas I whose fingers did draw up the young

Plant of your body: to me you looked e'er sprung

The secret of the moon within your eyes!

My mouth you met before your fine red mouth

Was set to song—and never your song denies

My love, till you went south."

"'Twas I who placed the bloom of manhood on

Your youthful smoothness: I fleeced where fleece

was none

Your fervent limbs with flickers and tendrils of new

Knowledge; I set your heart to its stronger beat;

I put my strength upon you, and I threw

My life at your feet."

"But I whom the years had reared to be your bride,

Who for years was sun for your shivering, shade for

your sweat,

Who for one strange year was as a bride to you—you

set me aside

With all the old, sweet things of our youth;—and

never yet

Have I ceased to grieve that I was not great enough

To defeat your baser stuff."

V

"But you are given back again to me

Who have kept intact for you your virginity.

Who for the rest of life walk out of care,

Indifferent here of myself, since I am gone

Where you are gone, and you and I out there

Walk now as one."

"Your widow am I, and only I. I dream

God bows his head and grants me this supreme

Pure look of your last dead face, whence now is gone

The mobility, the panther's gambolling,

And all your being is given to me, so none

Can mock my struggling."

"And now at last I kiss your perfect face,

Perfecting now our unfinished, first embrace.

Your young hushed look that then saw God ablaze

In every bush, is given you back, and we

Are met at length to finish our rest of days

In a unity."

HEIMWEH

FAR-OFF the lily-statues stand white-ranked in the

garden at home.

Would God they were shattered quickly, the cattle

would tread them out in the loam.

I wish the elder trees in flower could suddenly heave,

and burst

The walls of the house, and nettles puff out from

the hearth at which I was nursed.

It stands so still in the hush composed of trees and

inviolate peace,

The home of my fathers, the place that is mine, my

fate and my old increase.

And now that the skies are falling, the world is

spouting in fountains of dirt,

I would give my soul for the homestead to fall with

me, go with me, both in one hurt.

DEBACLE

THE trees in trouble because of autumn,

And scarlet berries falling from the bush,

And all the myriad houseless seeds

Loosing hold in the wind's insistent push

Moan softly with autumnal parturition,

Poor, obscure fruits extruded out of light

Into the world of shadow, carried down

Between the bitter knees of the after-night.

Bushed in an uncouth ardour, coiled at core

With a knot of life that only bliss can unravel,

Fall all the fruits most bitterly into earth

Bitterly into corrosion bitterly travel.

What is it internecine that is locked,

By very fierceness into a quiescence

Within the rage? We shall not know till it burst

Out of corrosion into new florescence.

Nay, but how tortured is the frightful seed

The spark intense within it, all without

Mordant corrosion gnashing and champing hard

For ruin on the naked small redoubt.

Bitter, to fold the issue, and make no sally;

To have the mystery, but not go forth;

To bear, but retaliate nothing, given to save

The spark in storms of corrosion, as seeds from

the north.

The sharper, more horrid the pressure, the harder

the heart

That saves the blue grain of eternal fire

Within its quick, committed to hold and wait

And suffer unheeding, only forbidden to expire.

NARCISSUS

WHERE the minnows trace

A glinting web quick hid in the gloom of the brook,

When I think of the place

And remember the small lad lying intent to look

Through the shadowy face

At the little fish thread-threading the watery nook—

It seems to me

The woman you are should be nixie, there is a pool

Where we ought to be.

You undine-clear and pearly, soullessly cool

And waterly

The pool for my limbs to fathom, my soul's last

school.

Narcissus

Ventured so long ago in the deeps of reflection.

Illyssus

Broke the bounds and beyond!—Dim recollection

Of fishes

Soundlessly moving in heaven's other direction!

Be

Undine towards the waters, moving back;

For me

A pool! Put off the soul you've got, oh lack

Your human self immortal; take the watery track.

AUTUMN SUNSHINE

THE sun sets out the autumn crocuses

And fills them up a pouring measure

Of death-producing wine, till treasure

Runs waste down their chalices.

All, all Persephone's pale cups of mould

Are on the board, are over-filled;

The portion to the gods is spilled;

Now, mortals all, take hold!

The time is now, the wine-cup full and full

Of lambent heaven, a pledging-cup;

Let now all mortal men take up

The drink, and a long, strong pull.

Out of the hell-queen's cup, the heaven's pale wine—

Drink then, invisible heroes, drink.

Lips to the vessels, never shrink,

Throats to the heavens incline.

And take within the wine the god's great oath

By heaven and earth and hellish stream

To break this sick and nauseous dream

We writhe and lust in, both.

Swear, in the pale wine poured from the cups of the

queen

Of hell, to wake and be free

From this nightmare we writhe in,

Break out of this foul has-been.

ON THAT DAY

ON that day

I shall put roses on roses, and cover your grave

With multitude of white roses: and since you were

brave

One bright red ray.

So people, passing under

The ash-trees of the valley-road, will raise

Their eyes and look at the grave on the hill, in

wonder,

Wondering mount, and put the flowers asunder

To see whose praise

Is blazoned here so white and so bloodily red.

Then they will say: "'Tis long since she is dead,

Who has remembered her after many days?"

And standing there

They will consider how you went your ways

Unnoticed among them, a still queen lost in the

maze

Of this earthly affair.

A queen, they'll say,

Has slept unnoticed on a forgotten hill.

Sleeps on unknown, unnoticed there, until

Dawns my insurgent day.

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Table of Contents

The Project Gutenberg eBook of New Poems, by D. H. Lawrence

NEW POEMS

London: Martin Seeker

1918

TO AMY LOWELL

APPREHENSION

COMING AWAKE

FROM A COLLEGE WINDOW

FLAPPER

BIRDCAGE WALK

LETTER FROM TOWN: THE

ALMOND TREE

FLAT SUBURBS, S.W., IN THE

MORNING

THIEF IN THE NIGHT

LETTER FROM TOWN: ON A

GREY EVENING IN MARCH

SUBURBS ON A HAZY DAY

HYDE PARK AT NIGHT, BEFORE

THE WAR

GIPSY

TWO-FOLD

UNDER THE OAK

SIGH NO MORE

LOVE STORM

PARLIAMENT HILL IN THE

EVENING

PICCADILLY CIRCUS AT NIGHT

TARANTELLA

IN CHURCH

PIANO

EMBANKMENT AT NIGHT,

BEFORE THE WAR

PHANTASMAGORIA

NEXT MORNING

PALIMPSEST OF TWILIGHT

EMBANKMENT AT NIGHT,

BEFORE THE WAR

WINTER IN THE BOULEVARD

SCHOOL ON THE OUTSKIRTS

SICKNESS

EVERLASTING FLOWERS

THE NORTH COUNTRY

BITTERNESS OF DEATH

II

III

SEVEN SEALS

READING A LETTER

TWENTY YEARS AGO

INTIME

TWO WIVES

II

III

IV

HEIMWEH

DEBACLE

NARCISSUS

AUTUMN SUNSHINE

ON THAT DAY

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE