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Thread: D.H. Lawrence

  1. #1
    Registered User
    Join Date
    Aug 2004

    D.H. Lawrence

    Hello everyone. While reading some of the many poems by D.H. Lawrence (1885-1930), I thought to share a few of my favorites. Enjoy.


    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 the flood of remembrance, I weep like a child for the past.


    After the Opera

    Down the stone stairs
    Girls with their large eyes wide with tragedy
    Lift looks of shocked and momentous emotion up at me
    And I smile.

    Stepping like birds with their bright and pointed feet
    Peer anxiously forth, as if for a boat to carry them out of the wreckage;
    And among the wreck of the theatre crowd
    I stand and smile.
    They take tragedy so becomingly;
    Which pleases me.

    But when I meet the weary eyes
    The reddened, aching eyes of the bar-man with thin arms,
    I am glad to go back to where I came from.


    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-blossoms and the 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 highroad.

    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 lead me onward, heaving, heaving
    A sigh among the shadows, thus retrieving
    A decent short regret for that which once was very good.



    The listless beauty of the hour
    When snow fell on the apple-trees
    And the wood-ash gathered in the fire
    And we faced our first miseries.

    Then the sweeping sunshine of noon
    When the mountains like chariot cars
    Were ranked to blue battle - and you and I
    Counted our scars.

    And then in a strange, grey hour
    We lay mouth to mouth, with your face
    Under mine like a star on the lake,
    And I covered the earth, and all space.

    The silent, drifting hours
    Of morn after morn
    And night drifting up to the night
    Yet no pathway worn.

    Your life, and mine, my love
    Passing on and on, the hate
    Fusing closer and closer with love
    Till at length they mate.

  2. #2
    Registered User
    Join Date
    Sep 2005
    I have just started to read D H L, but am still trying to understand there meanings, self-pity though really touch's me, but not sure why, what are your thoughts on this poem.

    Thanks Baz

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