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

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      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.