The Poetry of D. H. Lawrence. D. H. Lawrence
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Название: The Poetry of D. H. Lawrence

Автор: D. H. Lawrence

Издательство: Bookwire

Жанр: Языкознание

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isbn: 4064066052133

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СКАЧАТЬ KLOSTER SCHAEFTLARN

      Gloire De Dijon

       Table of Contents

      WHEN she rises in the morning

       I linger to watch her;

       She spreads the bath-cloth underneath the window

       And the sunbeams catch her

       Glistening white on the shoulders,

       While down her sides the mellow

       Golden shadow glows as

       She stoops to the sponge, and her swung breasts

       Sway like full-blown yellow

       Gloire de Dijon roses.

       She drips herself with water, and her shoulders

       Glisten as silver, they crumple up

       Like wet and falling roses, and I listen

       For the sluicing of their rain-dishevelled petals.

       In the window full of sunlight

       Concentrates her golden shadow

       Fold on fold, until it glows as

       Mellow as the glory roses.

       ICKING

      ROSES ON THE BREAKFAST TABLE JUST a few of the roses we gathered from the Isar Are fallen, and their mauve-red petals on the cloth Float like boats on a river, while other Roses are ready to fall, reluctant and loth. She laughs at me across the table, saying I am beautiful. I look at the rumpled young roses And suddenly realise, in them as in me, How lovely the present is that this day discloses.

      I AM LIKE A ROSE I AM myself at last; now I achieve My very self. I, with the wonder mellow, Full of fine warmth, I issue forth in clear And single me, perfected from my fellow. Here I am all myself. No rose-bush heaving Its limpid sap to culmination, has brought Itself more sheer and naked out of the green In stark-clear roses, than I to myself am brought.

      Rose of All the World

       Table of Contents

      I AM here myself; as though this heave of effort

       At starting other life, fulfilled my own:

       Rose-leaves that whirl in colour round a core

       Of seed-specks kindled lately and softly blown

       By all the blood of the rose-bush into being—

       Strange, that the urgent will in me, to set

       My mouth on hers in kisses, and so softly

       To bring together two strange sparks, beget

       Another life from our lives, so should send

       The innermost fire of my own dim soul out-

       spinning

       And whirling in blossom of flame and being upon

       me!

       That my completion of manhood should be the

       beginning

       Another life from mine! For so it looks.

       The seed is purpose, blossom accident.

       The seed is all in all, the blossom lent

       To crown the triumph of this new descent.

       Is that it, woman? Does it strike you so?

       The Great Breath blowing a tiny seed of fire

       Fans out your petals for excess of flame,

       Till all your being smokes with fine desire?

       Or are we kindled, you and I, to be

       One rose of wonderment upon the tree

       Of perfect life, and is our possible seed

       But the residuum of the ecstasy?

       How will you have it?—the rose is all in all,

       Or the ripe rose-fruits of the luscious fall?

       The sharp begetting, or the child begot?

       Our consummation matters, or does it not?

       To me it seems the seed is just left over

       From the red rose-flowers' fiery transience;

       Just orts and slarts; berries that smoulder in the

       bush

       Which burnt just now with marvellous immanence.

       Blossom, my darling, blossom, be a rose

       Of roses unchidden and purposeless; a rose

       For rosiness only, without an ulterior motive;

       For me it is more than enough if the flower un-

       close.

      A YOUTH MOWING THERE are four men mowing down by the Isar; I can hear the swish of the scythe-strokes, four Sharp breaths taken: yea, and I Am sorry for what's in store. The first man out of the four that's mowing Is mine, I claim him once and for all; Though it's sorry I am, on his young feet, knowing None of the trouble he's led to stall. As he sees me bringing the dinner, he lifts His head as proud as a deer that looks Shoulder-deep out of the corn; and wipes His scythe-blade bright, unhooks The scythe-stone and over the stubble to me. Lad, thou hast gotten a child in me, Laddie, a man thou'lt ha'e to be, Yea, though I'm sorry for thee.

      Quite Forsaken

       Table of Contents

      WHAT pain, to wake and miss you!

       To wake with a tightened heart,

       And mouth reaching forward to kiss you!

       This then at last is the dawn, and the bell

       Clanging at the farm! Such bewilderment

       Comes with the sight of the room, I cannot tell.

       It is raining. Down the half-obscure СКАЧАТЬ