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 So now it is vain for the singer to burst into clamour

       With the great black piano appassionato. The

       glamour

       Of childish days is upon me, my manhood is cast

       Down in the flood of remembrance, I weep like a

       child for the past.

      Embankment At Night

       Table of Contents

      BEFORE THE WAR

      Charity.

      BY the river

       In the black wet night as the furtive rain slinks

       down,

       Dropping and starting from sleep

       Alone on a seat

       A woman crouches.

       I must go back to her.

       I want to give her

       Some money. Her hand slips out of the breast of

       her gown

       Asleep. My fingers creep

       Carefully over the sweet

       Thumb-mound, into the palm's deep pouches.

       So, the gift!

       God, how she starts!

       And looks at me, and looks in the palm of her hand!

       And again at me!

       I turn and run

       Down the Embankment, run for my life.

       But why?—why?

       Because of my heart's

       Beating like sobs, I come to myself, and stand

       In the street spilled over splendidly

       With wet, flat lights. What I've done

       I know not, my soul is in strife.

       The touch was on the quick. I want to forget.

      Phantasmagoria

       Table of Contents

      RIGID sleeps the house in darkness, I alone

       Like a thing unwarrantable cross the hall

       And climb the stairs to find the group of doors

       Standing angel-stern and tall.

       I want my own room's shelter. But what is this

       Throng of startled beings suddenly thrown

       In confusion against my entry? Is it only the trees'

       Large shadows from the outside street lamp blown?

       Phantom to phantom leaning; strange women weep

       Aloud, suddenly on my mind

       Startling a fear unspeakable, as the shuddering wind

       Breaks and sobs in the blind.

       So like to women, tall strange women weeping!

       Why continually do they cross the bed?

       Why does my soul contract with unnatural fear?

       I am listening! Is anything said?

       Ever the long black figures swoop by the bed;

       They seem to be beckoning, rushing away, and

       beckoning.

       Whither then, whither, what is it, say

       What is the reckoning.

       Tall black Bacchae of midnight, why then, why

       Do you rush to assail me?

       Do I intrude on your rites nocturnal?

       What should it avail me?

       Is there some great Iacchos of these slopes

       Suburban dismal?

       Have I profaned some female mystery, orgies

       Black and phantasmal?

      Next Morning

       Table of Contents

      How have I wandered here to this vaulted room

       In the house of life?—the floor was ruffled with gold

       Last evening, and she who was softly in bloom,

       Glimmered as flowers that in perfume at twilight

       unfold

       For the flush of the night; whereas now the gloom

       Of every dirty, must-besprinkled mould,

       And damp old web of misery's heirloom

       Deadens this day's grey-dropping arras-fold.

       And what is this that floats on the undermist

       Of the mirror towards the dusty grate, as if feeling

       Unsightly its way to the warmth?—this thing with

       a list

       To the left? this ghost like a candle swealing?

       Pale-blurred, with two round black drops, as if it

       missed

       Itself among everything else, here hungrily stealing

       Upon me!—my own reflection!—explicit gist

       Of my presence there in the mirror that leans from

       the ceiling!

       Then will somebody square this shade with the

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