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

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       And the pallor of night does not tally

       With dark sleep that once covered its ceiling.

      My little red heifer, to-night I looked in her eyes,

       —She will calve to-morrow:

       Last night when I went with the lantern, the sow was grabbing her litter

       With red, snarling jaws: and I heard the cries

       Of the new-born, and after that, the old owl, then the bats that flitter.

      And I woke to the sound of the wood-pigeons, and lay and listened,

       Till I could borrow

       A few quick beats of a wood-pigeon’s heart, and when I did rise

       The morning sun on the shaken iris glistened,

       And I saw that home, this valley, was wider than Paradise.

      I learned it all from my Eve

       This warm, dumb wisdom.

       She’s a finer instructress than years;

       She has taught my heart-strings to weave

       Through the web of all laughter and tears.

      And now I see the valley

       Fleshed all like me

       With feelings that change and quiver:

       And all things seem to tally

       With something in me,

       Something of which she’s the giver.