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LOVE POEMS AND OTHERS




  LOVE · POEMS
  AND · OTHERS

  BY · D. H. LAWRENCE
  AUTHOR OF "THE WHITE PEACOCK" "THE TRESPASSER"


    DUCKWORTH · AND · CO.
  COVENT · GARDEN · LONDON
           MCMXIII




  _Several of these Poems have
  appeared in the "English
  Review," the "Nation," and
  the "Westminster Gazette."_




CONTENTS


LOVE POEMS:--
                                       PAGE
  Wedding Morn                           i.
  Kisses in the Train                  iii.
  Cruelty and Love                       v.
  Cherry Robbers                      viii.
  Lilies in the Fire                    ix.
  Coldness in Love                      xi.
  End of another Home-Holiday         xiii.
  Reminder                             xvi.
  Bei Hennef                         xviii.
  Lightning                            xix.
  Song-Day in Autumn                   xxi.
  Aware                              xxiii.
  A Pang of Reminiscence              xxiv.
  A White Blossom                      xxv.
  Red Moon-Rise                       xxvi.
  Return                            xxviii.
  The Appeal                          xxix.
  Repulsed                             xxx.
  Dream-Confused                     xxxii.
  Corot                             xxxiii.
  Morning Work                        xxxv.
  Transformations                    xxxvi.
  Renascence                       xxxviii.
  Dog-Tired                             xl.
  Michael-Angelo                       xli.


DIALECT POEMS:--

  Violets                             xlii.
  Whether or Not                      xliv.
  A Collier's Wife                    liii.
  The Drained Cup                      lvi.


THE SCHOOLMASTER:--

    I. A Snowy Day in School           lix.
   II. The Best of School               lx.
  III. Afternoon in School           lxiii.




WEDDING MORN


The morning breaks like a pomegranate
    In a shining crack of red,
Ah, when to-morrow the dawn comes late
    Whitening across the bed,
It will find me watching at the marriage gate
    And waiting while light is shed
On him who is sleeping satiate,
    With a sunk, abandoned head.

And when the dawn comes creeping in,
    Cautiously I shall raise
Myself to watch the morning win
    My first of days,
As it shows him sleeping a sleep he got
    Of me, as under my gaze,
He grows distinct, and I see his hot
    Face freed of the wavering blaze.

Then I shall know which image of God
    My man is made toward,
And I shall know my bitter rod
    Or my rich reward.
And I shall know the stamp and worth
    Of the coin I've accepted as mine,
Shall see an image of heaven or of earth
    On his minted metal shine.

Yea and I long to see him sleep
    In my power utterly,
I long to know what I have to keep,
    I long to see
My love, that spinning coin, laid still
    And plain at the side of me,
For me to count--for I know he will
    Greatly enrichen me.

And then he will be mine, he will lie
    In my power utterly,
Opening his value plain to my eye
    He will sleep of me.
He will lie negligent, resign
    His all to me, and I
Shall watch the dawn light up for me
    This sleeping wealth of mine.

And I shall watch the wan light shine
    On his sleep that is filled of me,
On his brow where the wisps of fond hair twine
    So truthfully,
On his lips where the light breaths come and go
    Naïve and winsomely,
On his limbs that I shall weep to know
    Lie under my mastery.




KISSES IN THE TRAIN


I saw the midlands
  Revolve through her hair;
The fields of autumn
  Stretching bare,
And sheep on the pasture
  Tossed back in a scare.

And still as ever
  The world went round,
My mouth on her pulsing
  Neck was found,
And my breast to her beating
  Breast was bound.

But my heart at the centre
  Of all, in a swound
Was still as a pivot,
  As all the ground
On its prowling orbit
  Shifted round.

And still in my nostrils
  The scent of her flesh,
And still my wet mouth
  Sought her afresh;
And still one pulse
  Through the world did thresh.

And the world all whirling
  Around in joy
Like the dance of a dervish
  Did destroy
My sense--and my reason
  Spun like a toy.

But firm at the centre
  My heart was found;
Her own to my perfect
  Heart-beat bound,
Like a magnet's keeper
  Closing the round.




CRUELTY AND LOVE


What large, dark hands are those at the window
Lifted, grasping the golden light
Which weaves its way through the creeper leaves
          To my heart's delight?

Ah, only the leaves! But in the west,
In the west I see a redness come
Over the evening's burning breast--
          --'Tis the wound of love goes home!

  The woodbine creeps abroad
  Calling low to her lover:
    The sun-lit flirt who all the day
    Has poised above her lips in play
    And stolen kisses, shallow and gay
    Of pollen, now has gone away
    --She woos the moth with her sweet, low word,
  And when above her his broad wings hover
  Then her bright breast she will uncover
  And yield her honey-drop to her lover.

  Into the yellow, evening glow
  Saunters a man from the farm below,
  Leans, and looks in at the low-built shed
  Where hangs the swallow's marriage bed.
    The bird lies warm against the wall.
    She glances quick her startled eyes
    Towards him, then she turns away
    Her small head, making warm display
    Of red upon the throat. His terrors sway
    Her out of the nest's warm, busy ball,
    Whose plaintive cry is heard as she flies
    In one blue stoop from out the sties
    Into the evening's empty hall.

Oh, water-hen, beside the rushes
Hide your quaint, unfading blushes,
Still your quick tail, and lie as dead,
Till the distance folds over his ominous tread.

The rabbit presses back her ears,
Turns back her liquid, anguished eyes
And crouches low: then with wild spring
Spurts from the terror of _his_ oncoming
To be choked back, the wire ring
Her frantic effort throttling:
    Piteous brown ball of quivering fears!

Ah soon in his large, hard hands she dies,
And swings all loose to the swing of his walk.
Yet calm and kindly are his eyes
And ready to open in brown surprise
Should I not answer to his talk
Or should he my tears surmise.

I hear his hand on the latch, and rise from my chair
Watching the door open: he flashes bare
His strong teeth in a smile, and flashes his eyes
In a smile like triumph upon me; then careless-wise
He flings the rabbit soft on the table board
And comes towards me: ah, the uplifted sword
Of his hand against my bosom, and oh, the broad
Blade of his hand that raise my face to applaud
His coming: he raises up my face to him
And caresses my mouth with his fingers, which still smell grim
Of the rabbit's fur! God, I am caught in a snare!
I know not what fine wire is round my throat,
I only know I let him finger there
My pulse of life, letting him nose like a stoat
Who sniffs with joy before he drinks the blood:
And down his mouth comes to my mouth, and down
His dark bright eyes descend like a fiery hood
Upon my mind: his mouth meets mine, and a flood
Of sweet fire sweeps across me, so I drown
Within him, die, and find death good.




CHERRY ROBBERS


Under the long, dark boughs, like jewels red
      In the hair of an Eastern girl
Shine strings of crimson cherries, as if had bled
      Blood-drops beneath each curl.

Under the glistening cherries, with folded wings
      Three dead birds lie:
Pale-breasted throstles and a blackbird, robberlings
      Stained with red dye.

Under the haystack a girl stands laughing at me,
      With cherries hung round her ears--
Offering me her scarlet fruit: I will see
      If she has any tears.




LILIES IN THE FIRE


I

Ah, you stack of white lilies, all white and gold,
I am adrift as a sunbeam, and without form
Or having, save I light on you to warm
Your pallor into radiance, flush your cold

White beauty into incandescence: you
Are not a stack of white lilies to-night, but a white
And clustered star transfigured by me to-night,
And lighting these ruddy leaves like a star dropped through

The slender bare arms of the branches, your tire-maidens
Who lift swart arms to fend me off; but I come
Like a wind of fire upon you, like to some
Stray whitebeam who on you his fire unladens.

And you are a glistening toadstool shining here
Among the crumpled beech-leaves phosphorescent,
My stack of white lilies burning incandescent
Of me, a soft white star among the leaves, my dear.


II

Is it with pain, my dear, that you shudder so?
Is it because I have hurt you with pain, my dear?

    Did I shiver?--Nay, truly I did not know--
    A dewdrop may-be splashed on my face down here.

Why even now you speak through close-shut teeth.
I have been too much for you--Ah, I remember!

    The ground is a little chilly underneath
    The leaves--and, dear, you consume me all to an ember.

You hold yourself all hard as if my kisses
Hurt as I gave them--you put me away--

    Ah never I put you away: yet each kiss hisses
    Hot as a drop of fire wastes me away.


III

I am ashamed, you wanted me not to-night--
Nay, it is always so, you sigh with me.
Your radiance dims when I draw too near, and my free
Fire enters your petals like death, you wilt dead white.

Ah, I do know, and I am deep ashamed;
You love me while I hover tenderly
Like clinging sunbeams kissing you: but see
When I close in fire upon you, and you are flamed

With the swiftest fire of my love, you are destroyed.
'Tis a degradation deep to me, that my best
Soul's whitest lightning which should bright attest
God stepping down to earth in one white stride,

Means only to you a clogged, numb burden of flesh
Heavy to bear, even heavy to uprear
Again from earth, like lilies wilted and sere
Flagged on the floor, that before stood up so fresh.




COLDNESS IN LOVE


And you remember, in the afternoon
The sea and the sky went grey, as if there had sunk
A flocculent dust on the floor of the world: the festoon
Of the sky sagged dusty as spider cloth,
And coldness clogged the sea, till it ceased to croon.

A dank, sickening scent came up from the grime
Of weed that blackened the shore, so that I recoiled
Feeling the raw cold dun me: and all the time
You leapt about on the slippery rocks, and threw
The words that rang with a brassy, shallow chime.

And all day long that raw and ancient cold
Deadened me through, till the grey downs darkened to sleep.
Then I longed for you with your mantle of love to fold
Me over, and drive from out of my body the deep
Cold that had sunk to my soul, and there kept hold.

But still to me all evening long you were cold,
And I was numb with a bitter, deathly ache;
Till old days drew me back into their fold,
And dim sheep crowded me warm with companionship,
And old ghosts clustered me close, and sleep was cajoled.

I slept till dawn at the window blew in like dust,
Like the linty, raw-cold dust disturbed from the floor
Of a disused room: a grey pale light like must
That settled upon my face and hands till it seemed
To flourish there, as pale mould blooms on a crust.

Then I rose in fear, needing you fearfully,
For I thought you were warm as a sudden jet of blood.
I thought I could plunge in your spurting hotness, and be
Clean of the cold and the must.--With my hand on the latch
I heard you in your sleep speak strangely to me.

And I dared not enter, feeling suddenly dismayed.
So I went and washed my deadened flesh in the sea
And came back tingling clean, but worn and frayed
With cold, like the shell of the moon: and strange it seems
That my love has dawned in rose again, like the love of a maid.




END OF ANOTHER HOME-HOLIDAY


I

When shall I see the half moon sink again
Behind the black sycamore at the end of the garden?
When will the scent of the dim, white phlox
Creep up the wall to me, and in at my open window?

Why is it, the long slow stroke of the midnight bell,
    (Will it never finish the twelve?)
Falls again and again on my heart with a heavy reproach?

The moon-mist is over the village, out of the mist speaks the bell,
And all the little roofs of the village bow low, pitiful, beseeching,
resigned:
    Oh, little home, what is it I have not done well?

Ah home, suddenly I love you,
As I hear the sharp clean trot of a pony down the road,
Succeeding sharp little sounds dropping into the silence,
Clear upon the long-drawn hoarseness of a train across the valley.

The light has gone out from under my mother's door.
        That she should love me so,
        She, so lonely, greying now,
        And I leaving her,
        Bent on my pursuits!

    Love is the great Asker,
    The sun and the rain do not ask the secret

    Of the time when the grain struggles down in the dark.
    The moon walks her lonely way without anguish,
    Because no loved one grieves over her departure.


II

Forever, ever by my shoulder pitiful Love will linger,
Crouching as little houses crouch under the mist when I turn.
Forever, out of the mist the church lifts up her reproachful finger,
Pointing my eyes in wretched defiance where love hides her face to
mourn.

    Oh but the rain creeps down to wet the grain
        That struggles alone in the dark,
    And asking nothing, cheerfully steals back again!
        The moon sets forth o' nights
        To walk the lonely, dusky heights
        Serenely, with steps unswerving;
        Pursued by no sigh of bereavement,
        No tears of love unnerving
        Her constant tread:
    While ever at my side,
        Frail and sad, with grey bowed head,
        The beggar-woman, the yearning-eyed
        Inexorable love goes lagging.

The wild young heifer, glancing distraught,
With a strange new knocking of life at her side
    Runs seeking a loneliness.
The little grain draws down the earth to hide.
Nay, even the slumberous egg, as it labours under the shell,
    Patiently to divide, and self-divide,
Asks to be hidden, and wishes nothing to tell.

But when I draw the scanty cloak of silence over my eyes,
Piteous Love comes peering under the hood.
Touches the clasp with trembling fingers, and tries
To put her ear to the painful sob of my blood,
While her tears soak through to my breast,
      Where they burn and cauterise.


III

  The moon lies back and reddens.
  In the valley, a corncrake calls
        Monotonously,
  With a piteous, unalterable plaint, that deadens
        My confident activity:
  With a hoarse, insistent request that falls
        Unweariedly, unweariedly,
        Asking something more of me,
            Yet more of me!




REMINDER


    Do you remember
How night after night swept level and low
Overhead, at home, and had not one star,
Nor one narrow gate for the moon to go
    Forth to her field of November.

    And you remember,
How towards the north a red blot on the sky
Burns like a blotch of anxiety
Over the forges, and small flames ply
    Like ghosts the shadow of the ember.

    Those were the days
When it was awful autumn to me,
When only there glowed on the dark of the sky
The red reflection of her agony,
    My beloved smelting down in the blaze

    Of death--my dearest
Love who had borne, and was now leaving me.
And I at the foot of her cross did suffer
    My own gethsemane.

    So I came to you,
And twice, after great kisses, I saw
The rim of the moon divinely rise
And strive to detach herself from the raw
    Blackened edge of the skies.

    Strive to escape;
With her whiteness revealing my sunken world
Tall and loftily shadowed. But the moon
Never magnolia-like unfurled
    Her white, her lamp-like shape.

    For you told me no,
And bade me not to ask for the dour
Communion, offering--"a better thing."
So I lay on your breast for an obscure hour
    Feeling your fingers go

    Like a rhythmic breeze
Over my hair, and tracing my brows,
Till I knew you not from a little wind:
--I wonder now if God allows
    Us only one moment his keys.

    If only then
You could have unlocked the moon on the night,
And I baptized myself in the light
Of your love; we both have entered then the white
    Pure passion, and never again.

    I wonder if only
You had taken me then, how different
Life would have been: should I have spent
Myself in waste, and you