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

Серия:

isbn: 4064066052133

isbn:

СКАЧАТЬ That citadel of delight.

       Now verdigris smoulderings softly spread

       Through the shroud of the town, as slow

       Night-lights hither and thither shed

       Their ghastly glow.

      Piccadilly Circus At Night

       Table of Contents

      Street-Walkers.

      WHEN into the night the yellow light is roused like

       dust above the towns,

       Or like a mist the moon has kissed from off a pool in

       the midst of the downs,

       Our faces flower for a little hour pale and uncertain

       along the street,

       Daisies that waken all mistaken white-spread in ex-

       pectancy to meet

       The luminous mist which the poor things wist was

       dawn arriving across the sky,

       When dawn is far behind the star the dust-lit town

       has driven so high.

       All the birds are folded in a silent ball of sleep,

       All the flowers are faded from the asphalt isle in

       the sea,

       Only we hard-faced creatures go round and round,

       and keep

       The shores of this innermost ocean alive and

       illusory.

       Wanton sparrows that twittered when morning

       looked in at their eyes

       And the Cyprian's pavement-roses are gone, and

       now it is we

       Flowers of illusion who shine in our gauds, make a

       Paradise

       On the shores of this ceaseless ocean, gay birds of

       the town-dark sea.

      Tarantella

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      SAD as he sits on the white sea-stone

       And the suave sea chuckles, and turns to the moon,

       And the moon significant smiles at the cliffs and

       the boulders.

       He sits like a shade by the flood alone

       While I dance a tarantella on the rocks, and the

       croon

       Of my mockery mocks at him over the waves'

       bright shoulders.

       What can I do but dance alone,

       Dance to the sliding sea and the moon,

       For the moon on my breast and the air on my limbs

       and the foam on my feet?

       For surely this earnest man has none

       Of the night in his soul, and none of the tune

       Of the waters within him; only the world's old

       wisdom to bleat.

       I wish a wild sea-fellow would come down the

       glittering shingle,

       A soulless neckar, with winking seas in his eyes

       And falling waves in his arms, and the lost soul's kiss

       On his lips: I long to be soulless, I tingle

       To touch the sea in the last surprise

       Of fiery coldness, to be gone in a lost soul's bliss.

      In Church

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      IN the choir the boys are singing the hymn.

       The morning light on their lips

       Moves in silver-moist flashes, in musical trim.

       Sudden outside the high window, one crow

       Hangs in the air

       And lights on a withered oak-tree's top of woe.

       One bird, one blot, folded and still at the top

       Of the withered tree!—in the grail

       Of crystal heaven falls one full black drop.

       Like a soft full drop of darkness it seems to sway

       In the tender wine

       Of our Sabbath, suffusing our sacred day.

      Piano

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      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.

СКАЧАТЬ