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 valley roars a townward train.

       I hear it through the grass

       Dragging the links of my shortening chain

       Southwards, alas!

      Town

       Table of Contents

      LONDON

       Used to wear her lights splendidly,

       Flinging her shawl-fringe over the River,

       Tassels in abandon.

       And up in the sky

       A two-eyed clock, like an owl

       Solemnly used to approve, chime, chiming,

       Approval, goggle-eyed fowl.

       There are no gleams on the River,

       No goggling clock;

       No sound from St. Stephen's;

       No lamp-fringed frock.

       Instead,

       Darkness, and skin-wrapped

       Fleet, hurrying limbs,

       Soft-footed dead.

       London

       Original, wolf-wrapped

       In pelts of wolves, all her luminous

       Garments gone.

       London, with hair

       Like a forest darkness, like a marsh

       Of rushes, ere the Romans

       Broke in her lair.

       It is well

       That London, lair of sudden

       Male and female darknesses

       Has broken her spell.

      After The Opera

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      DOWN the stone stairs

       Girls with their large eyes wide with tragedy

       Lift looks of shocked and momentous emotion

       up at me.

       And I smile.

       Ladies

       Stepping like birds with their bright and pointed feet

       Peer anxiously forth, as if for a boat to carry them out

       of the wreckage,

       And among the wreck of the theatre crowd

       I stand and smile.

       They take tragedy so becomingly.

       Which pleases me.

       But when I meet the weary eyes

       The reddened aching eyes of the bar-man with thin

       arms,

       I am glad to go back to where I came from.

      Going Back

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      THE NIGHT turns slowly round,

       Swift trains go by in a rush of light;

       Slow trains steal past.

       This train beats anxiously, outward bound.

       But I am not here.

       I am away, beyond the scope of this turning;

       There, where the pivot is, the axis

       Of all this gear.

       I, who sit in tears,

       I, whose heart is torn with parting;

       Who cannot bear to think back to the departure

       platform;

       My spirit hears

       Voices of men

       Sound of artillery, aeroplanes, presences,

       And more than all, the dead-sure silence,

       The pivot again.

       There, at the axis

       Pain, or love, or grief

       Sleep on speed; in dead certainty;

       Pure relief.

       There, at the pivot

       Time sleeps again.

       No has-been, no here-after; only the perfected

       Silence of men.

      On The March

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      WE are out on the open road.

       Through the low west window a cold light

       flows

       On the floor where never my numb feet trode

       Before; onward the strange road goes.

       Soon the spaces of the western sky

       With shutters of sombre cloud will close.

       But we'll still be together, this road and I,

       Together, wherever the long road goes.

       The wind chases by us, and over the corn

       Pale shadows flee from us as if from their foes.

       Like a snake we thresh on the long, forlorn

       Land, as onward the long road goes.

       СКАЧАТЬ