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

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      Red Moon-rise

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      The train in running across the weald has fallen into a steadier stroke

       So even, it beats like silence, and sky and earth in one unbroke

       Embrace of darkness lie around, and crushed between them all the loose

       And littered lettering of leaves and hills and houses closed, and we can use

       The open book of landscape no more, for the covers of darkness have shut upon

       Its written pages, and sky and earth and all between are closed in one.

      And we are smothered between the darkness, we close our eyes and say “Hush!” we try

       To escape in sleep the terror of this immense deep darkness, and we lie

       Wrapped up for sleep. And then, dear God, from out of the twofold darkness, red

       As if from the womb the moon arises, as if the twin-walled darkness had bled

       In one great spasm of birth and given us this new, red moon-rise

       Which lies on the knees of the darkness bloody, and makes us hide our eyes.

      The train beats frantic in haste, and struggles away

       From this ruddy terror of birth that has slid down

       From out of the loins of night to flame our way

       With fear; but God, I am glad, so glad that I drown

       My terror with joy of confirmation, for now

       Lies God all red before me, and I am glad,

       As the Magi were when they saw the rosy brow

       Of the Infant bless their constant folly which had

       Brought them thither to God: for now I know

       That the Womb is a great red passion whence rises all

       The shapeliness that decks us here-below:

       Yea like the fire that boils within this ball

       Of earth, and quickens all herself with flowers,

       God burns within the stiffened clay of us;

       And every flash of thought that we and ours

       Send up to heaven, and every movement, does

       Fly like a spark from this God-fire of passion;

       And pain of birth, and joy of the begetting,

       And sweat of labour, and the meanest fashion

       Of fretting or of gladness, but the jetting

       Of a trail of the great fire against the sky

       Where we can see it, a jet from the innermost fire:

       And even in the watery shells that lie

       Alive within the cozy under-mire,

       A grain of this same fire I can descry.

      And then within the screaming birds that fly

       Across the lightning when the storm leaps higher;

       And then the swirling, flaming folk that try

       To come like fire-flames at their fierce desire,

       They are as earth’s dread, spurting flames that ply

       Awhile and gush forth death and then expire.

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