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+The Project Gutenberg EBook of Bay, by D. H. Lawrence
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
+
+
+Title: Bay
+       A Book of Poems
+
+Author: D. H. Lawrence
+
+Release Date: September 23, 2007 [EBook #22734]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BAY ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by Lewis Jones
+
+
+
+
+
+D.H. Lawrence (1919) _Bay: A Book of Poems_
+
+
+Transcriber's Note: These poems were first published
+by the Beaumont Press in a limited edition. Facsimile
+page images from the original publication, including
+facsimile images of the original coloured illustrations
+by Anne Estelle Rice, are freely available from the
+Internet Archive.
+
+
+BAY . . A BOOK
+OF . . POEMS . . BY
+D: H: LAWRENCE
+
+
+
+To Cynthia Asquith
+
+
+
+CONTENTS
+
+
+GUARDS
+  Where the trees rise like cliffs
+
+THE LITTLE TOWN AT EVENING
+  The chime of the bells
+
+LAST HOURS
+  The cool of an oak's unchequered shade
+
+TOWN
+  London
+
+AFTER THE OPERA
+  Down the stone stairs
+
+GOING BACK
+  The night turns slowly round
+
+ON THE MARCH
+  We are out on the open road
+
+BOMBARDMENT
+  The town has opened to the sun
+
+WINTER-LULL
+  Because of the silent snow
+
+THE ATTACK
+  When we came out of the wood
+
+OBSEQUIAL ODE
+  Surely you've trodden straight
+
+SHADES
+  Shall I tell you, then, how it is?--
+
+BREAD UPON THE WATERS
+  So you are lost to me
+
+RUINATION
+  The sun is bleeding its fires upon the mist
+
+RONDEAU
+  The hours have tumbled their leaden sands
+
+TOMMIES IN THE TRAIN
+  The sun shines
+
+WAR-BABY
+  The child like mustard-seed
+
+NOSTALGIA
+  The waning moon looks upward
+
+COLOPHON
+
+
+
+
+
+GUARDS!
+
+A Review in Hyde Park 1913.
+The Crowd Watches.
+
+WHERE the trees rise like cliffs, proud and
+  blue-tinted in the distance,
+Between the cliffs of the trees, on the grey-
+  green park
+Rests a still line of soldiers, red motionless range of
+  guards
+Smouldering with darkened busbies beneath the bay-
+  onets' slant rain.
+
+Colossal in nearness a blue police sits still on his horse
+Guarding the path; his hand relaxed at his thigh,
+And skyward his face is immobile, eyelids aslant
+In tedium, and mouth relaxed as if smiling--ineffable
+tedium!
+
+So! So! Gaily a general canters across the space,
+With white plumes blinking under the evening grey
+  sky.
+And suddenly, as if the ground moved
+The red range heaves in slow, magnetic reply.
+
+EVOLUTIONS OF SOLDIERS
+
+The red range heaves and compulsory sways, ah see!
+  in the flush of a march
+Softly-impulsive advancing as water towards a weir
+  from the arch
+Of shadow emerging as blood emerges from inward
+  shades of our night
+Encroaching towards a crisis, a meeting, a spasm and
+  throb of delight.
+
+The wave of soldiers, the coming wave, the throbbing
+  red breast of approach
+Upon us; dark eyes as here beneath the busbies glit-
+  tering, dark threats that broach
+Our beached vessel; darkened rencontre inhuman, and
+  closed warm lips, and dark
+Mouth-hair of soldiers passing above us, over the wreck
+  of our bark.
+
+And so, it is ebb-time, they turn, the eyes beneath the
+  busbies are gone.
+But the blood has suspended its timbre, the heart from
+  out of oblivion
+Knows but the retreat of the burning shoulders, the
+  red-swift waves of the sweet
+Fire horizontal declining and ebbing, the twilit ebb of
+  retreat.
+
+
+THE LITTLE TOWN AT EVENING
+
+THE chime of the bells, and the church clock
+  striking eight
+Solemnly and distinctly cries down the babel
+  of children still playing in the hay.
+The church draws nearer upon us, gentle and great
+In shadow, covering us up with her grey.
+
+Like drowsy children the houses fall asleep
+Under the fleece of shadow, as in between
+Tall and dark the church moves, anxious to keep
+Their sleeping, cover them soft unseen.
+
+Hardly a murmur comes from the sleeping brood,
+I wish the church had covered me up with the rest
+In the home-place. Why is it she should exclude
+Me so distinctly from sleeping with those I love best?
+
+
+LAST HOURS
+
+THE cool of an oak's unchequered shade
+Falls on me as I lie in deep grass
+Which rushes upward, blade beyond blade,
+While higher the darting grass-flowers pass
+Piercing the blue with their crocketed spires
+And waving flags, and the ragged fires
+Of the sorrel's cresset--a green, brave town
+Vegetable, new in renown.
+
+Over the tree's edge, as over a mountain
+Surges the white of the moon,
+A cloud comes up like the surge of a fountain,
+Pressing round and low at first, but soon
+Heaving and piling a round white dome.
+How lovely it is to be at home
+Like an insect in the grass
+Letting life pass.
+
+There's a scent of clover crept through my hair
+From the full resource of some purple dome
+Where that lumbering bee, who can hardly bear
+His burden above me, never has clomb.
+But not even the scent of insouciant flowers
+Makes pause the hours.
+
+Down the valley roars a townward train.
+I hear it through the grass
+Dragging the links of my shortening chain
+Southwards, alas!
+
+
+TOWN
+
+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
+
+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
+
+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
+
+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.
+
+From the sky, the low, tired moon fades out;
+Through the poplars the night-wind blows;
+Pale, sleepy phantoms are tossed about
+As the wind asks whither the wan road goes.
+
+Away in the distance wakes a lamp.
+Inscrutable small lights glitter in rows.
+But they come no nearer, and still we tramp
+Onward, wherever the strange road goes.
+
+Beat after beat falls sombre and dull.
+The wind is unchanging, not one of us knows
+What will be in the final lull
+When we find the place where this dead road goes.
+
+For something must come, since we pass and pass
+Along in the coiled, convulsive throes
+Of this marching, along with the invisible grass
+That goes wherever this old road goes.
+
+Perhaps we shall come to oblivion.
+Perhaps we shall march till our tired toes
+Tread over the edge of the pit, and we're gone
+Down the endless slope where the last road goes.
+
+If so, let us forge ahead, straight on
+If we're going to sleep the sleep with those
+That fall forever, knowing none
+Of this land whereon the wrong road goes.
+
+
+BOMBARDMENT
+
+THE TOWN has opened to the sun.
+Like a flat red lily with a million petals
+She unfolds, she comes undone.
+
+A sharp sky brushes upon
+The myriad glittering chimney-tips
+As she gently exhales to the sun.
+
+Hurrying creatures run
+Down the labyrinth of the sinister flower.
+What is it they shun?
+
+A dark bird falls from the sun.
+It curves in a rush to the heart of the vast
+Flower: the day has begun.
+
+
+WINTER-LULL
+
+Because of the silent snow, we are all hushed
+          Into awe.
+No sound of guns, nor overhead no rushed
+          Vibration to draw
+Our attention out of the void wherein we are crushed.
+
+A crow floats past on level wings
+          Noiselessly.
+Uninterrupted silence swings
+          Invisibly, inaudibly
+To and fro in our misgivings.
+
+We do not look at each other, we hide
+          Our daunted eyes.
+White earth, and ruins, ourselves, and nothing beside.
+          It all belies
+Our existence; we wait, and are still denied.
+
+We are folded together, men and the snowy ground
+          Into nullity.
+There is silence, only the silence, never a sound
+          Nor a verity
+To assist us; disastrously silence-bound!
+
+
+THE ATTACK
+
+WHEN we came out of the wood
+Was a great light!
+The night uprisen stood
+In white.
+
+I wondered, I looked around
+It was so fair. The bright
+Stubble upon the ground
+Shone white
+
+Like any field of snow;
+Yet warm the chase
+Of faint night-breaths did go
+Across my face!
+
+White-bodied and warm the night was,
+Sweet-scented to hold in my throat.
+White and alight the night was.
+A pale stroke smote
+
+The pulse through the whole bland being
+Which was This and me;
+A pulse that still went fleeing,
+Yet did not flee.
+
+After the terrible rage, the death,
+This wonder stood glistening?
+All shapes of wonder, with suspended breath,
+Arrested listening
+
+In ecstatic reverie.
+The whole, white Night!--
+With wonder, every black tree
+Blossomed outright.
+
+I saw the transfiguration
+And the present Host.
+Transubstantiation
+Of the Luminous Ghost.
+
+
+OBSEQUIAL ODE
+
+SURELY you've trodden straight
+To the very door!
+Surely you took your fate
+Faultlessly. Now it's too late
+To say more.
+
+    It is evident you were right,
+    That man has a course to go
+A voyage to sail beyond the charted seas.
+You have passed from out of sight
+    And my questions blow
+Back from the straight horizon that ends all one sees.
+
+    Now like a vessel in port
+    You unlade your riches unto death,
+And glad are the eager dead to receive you there.
+    Let the dead sort
+Your cargo out, breath from breath
+Let them disencumber your bounty, let them all share.
+
+    I imagine dead hands are brighter,
+    Their fingers in sunset shine
+With jewels of passion once broken through you as a
+  prism
+Breaks light into jewels; and dead breasts whiter
+    For your wrath; and yes, I opine
+They anoint their brows with your blood, as a perfect
+  chrism.
+
+    On your body, the beaten anvil,
+    Was hammered out
+That moon-like sword the ascendant dead unsheathe
+Against us; sword that no man will
+    Put to rout;
+Sword that severs the question from us who breathe.
+
+Surely you've trodden straight
+    To the very door.
+You have surely achieved your fate;
+And the perfect dead are elate
+    To have won once more.
+
+Now to the dead you are giving
+    Your last allegiance.
+But what of us who are living
+And fearful yet of believing
+    In your pitiless legions.
+
+
+SHADES
+
+SHALL I tell you, then, how it is?--
+There came a cloven gleam
+Like a tongue of darkened flame
+To flicker in me.
+
+And so I seem
+To have you still the same
+In one world with me.
+
+In the flicker of a flower,
+In a worm that is blind, yet strives,
+In a mouse that pauses to listen
+
+Glimmers our
+Shadow; yet it deprives
+Them none of their glisten.
+
+In every shaken morsel
+I see our shadow tremble
+As if it rippled from out of us hand in hand.
+
+As if it were part and parcel,
+One shadow, and we need not dissemble
+Our darkness: do you understand?
+
+For I have told you plainly how it is.
+
+
+BREAD UPON THE WATERS.
+
+SO you are lost to me!
+Ah you, you ear of corn straight lying,
+What food is this for the darkly flying
+Fowls of the Afterwards!
+
+White bread afloat on the waters,
+Cast out by the hand that scatters
+Food untowards,
+
+Will you come back when the tide turns?
+After many days? My heart yearns
+To know.
+
+Will you return after many days
+To say your say as a traveller says,
+More marvel than woe?
+
+Drift then, for the sightless birds
+And the fish in shadow-waved herds
+To approach you.
+
+Drift then, bread cast out;
+Drift, lest I fall in doubt,
+And reproach you.
+
+For you are lost to me!
+
+
+RUINATION
+
+THE sun is bleeding its fires upon the mist
+That huddles in grey heaps coiling and holding
+  back.
+Like cliffs abutting in shadow a drear grey sea
+Some street-ends thrust forward their stack.
+
+On the misty waste-lands, away from the flushing grey
+Of the morning the elms are loftily dimmed, and tall
+As if moving in air towards us, tall angels
+Of darkness advancing steadily over us all.
+
+
+RONDEAU OF A CONSCIENTIOUS
+OBJECTOR.
+
+THE hours have tumbled their leaden, mono-
+  tonous sands
+And piled them up in a dull grey heap in the
+  West.
+I carry my patience sullenly through the waste lands;
+To-morrow will pour them all back, the dull hours I
+  detest.
+
+I force my cart through the sodden filth that is pressed
+Into ooze, and the sombre dirt spouts up at my hands
+As I make my way in twilight now to rest.
+The hours have tumbled their leaden, monotonous
+  sands.
+
+A twisted thorn-tree still in the evening stands
+Defending the memory of leaves and the happy round
+  nest.
+But mud has flooded the homes of these weary lands
+And piled them up in a dull grey heap in the West.
+
+All day has the clank of iron on iron distressed
+The nerve-bare place. Now a little silence expands
+And a gasp of relief. But the soul is still compressed:
+I carry my patience sullenly through the waste lands.
+
+The hours have ceased to fall, and a star commands
+Shadows to cover our stricken manhood, and blest
+Sleep to make us forget: but he understands:
+To-morrow will pour them all back, the dull hours
+  I detest.
+
+
+TOMMIES IN THE TRAIN
+
+THE SUN SHINES,
+The coltsfoot flowers along the railway banks
+Shine like flat coin which Jove in thanks
+Strews each side the lines.
+
+A steeple
+In purple elms, daffodils
+Sparkle beneath; luminous hills
+Beyond--and no people.
+
+England, Oh Danaë
+To this spring of cosmic gold
+That falls on your lap of mould!
+What then are we?
+
+What are we
+Clay-coloured, who roll in fatigue
+As the train falls league by league
+From our destiny?
+
+A hand is over my face,
+A cold hand. I peep between the fingers
+To watch the world that lingers
+Behind, yet keeps pace.
+
+Always there, as I peep
+Between the fingers that cover my face!
+Which then is it that falls from its place
+And rolls down the steep?
+
+Is it the train
+That falls like meteorite
+Backward into space, to alight
+Never again?
+
+Or is it the illusory world
+That falls from reality
+As we look? Or are we
+Like a thunderbolt hurled?
+
+One or another
+Is lost, since we fall apart
+Endlessly, in one motion depart
+From each other.
+
+
+WAR-BABY
+
+THE CHILD like mustard-seed
+Rolls out of the husk of death
+   Into the woman's fertile, fathomless lap.
+
+Look, it has taken root!
+See how it flourisheth.
+   See how it rises with magical, rosy sap!
+
+As for our faith, it was there
+When we did not know, did not care;
+   It fell from our husk like a little, hasty seed.
+
+Sing, it is all we need.
+Sing, for the little weed
+   Will flourish its branches in heaven when we
+     slumber beneath.
+
+
+NOSTALGIA
+
+THE WANING MOON looks upward; this
+   grey night
+Slopes round the heavens in one smooth curve
+Of easy sailing; odd red wicks serve
+To show where the ships at sea move out of sight.
+
+The place is palpable me, for here I was born
+Of this self-same darkness. Yet the shadowy house
+   below
+Is out of bounds, and only the old ghosts know
+I have come, I feel them whimper in welcome, and
+   mourn.
+
+My father suddenly died in the harvesting corn
+And the place is no longer ours. Watching, I hear
+No sound from the strangers, the place is dark, and fear
+Opens my eyes till the roots of my vision seems torn.
+
+Can I go no nearer, never towards the door?
+The ghosts and I we mourn together, and shrink
+In the shadow of the cart-shed. Must we hover on
+   the brink
+Forever, and never enter the homestead any more?
+
+Is it irrevocable? Can I really not go
+Through the open yard-way? Can I not go past the
+   sheds
+And through to the mowie?--Only the dead in their
+   beds
+Can know the fearful anguish that this is so.
+
+I kiss the stones, I kiss the moss on the wall,
+And wish I could pass impregnate into the place.
+I wish I could take it all in a last embrace.
+I wish with my breast I here could annihilate it all.
+
+
+
+HERE   ENDS    BAY   A   BOOK   OF    POEMS   BY
+ D. H. Lawrence  The  Cover and the Decorations
+  designed by Anne Estelle Rice The Typography
+   and Binding arranged  by  Cyril W. Beaumont
+   Printed by Hand on his Press at 75 Charing
+     Cross Road in the City of Westminster
+      Completed November the Twentieth
+                 MDCCCCXIX
+
+
+[Logo] SIMPLEX . MUNDITIIS  . . . THE . BEAUMONT . PRESS
+
+
+Pressman             Charles Wright
+
+Compositor         C. W. Beaumont
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Bay, by D. H. Lawrence
+
+*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BAY ***
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+   PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN"
+   "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd" >
+
+<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">
+  <head>
+    <meta content="pg2html (binary v0.17)" name="linkgenerator" />
+    <title>
+      Bay, by D. H. Lawrence
+    </title>
+    <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve">
+    body { margin:15%; background:#faebd0; text-align:justify}
+    P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .75em; margin-bottom: .75em; }
+    H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; }
+    hr  { width: 50%; text-align: center;}
+    .foot { margin-left: 5%; margin-right: 5%; text-align: justify; font-size: 80%; font-style: italic;}
+    blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;}
+    .mynote    {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;}
+    .toc       { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;}
+    .toc2      { margin-left: 20%;}
+    .xx-small {font-size: 60%;}
+    .x-small {font-size: 75%;}
+    .small {font-size: 85%;}
+    .large {font-size: 115%;}
+    .x-large {font-size: 130%;}
+    .indent5   { margin-left: 5%;}
+    .indent10  { margin-left: 10%;}
+    .indent15  { margin-left: 15%;}
+    .indent20  { margin-left: 20%;}
+    .indent25  { margin-left: 25%;}
+    .indent30  { margin-left: 30%;}
+    .indent35  { margin-left: 35%;}
+    .indent40  { margin-left: 40%;}
+    div.fig    { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; }
+    div.middle { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; }
+    .figleft   {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;}
+    .figright  {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;}
+    .pagenum   {position: absolute; right: 1%; font-size: 0.6em;
+                font-variant: normal; font-style: normal;
+                text-align: right; background-color: #FFFACD;
+                border: 1px solid; padding: 0.3em;text-indent: 0em;}
+    .side      { float: left; font-size: 75%; width: 15%; padding-left: 0.8em;
+               border-left: dashed thin; text-align: left;
+               text-indent: 0; font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;
+               font-weight: bold; color: black; background: #eeeeee; border:        solid 1px;}
+    .head      { float: left; font-size: 90%; width: 98%; padding-left: 0.8em;
+               border-left: dashed thin; text-align: center;
+               text-indent: 0; font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;
+               font-weight: bold; color: black; background: #eeeeee; border:        solid 1px;}
+    p.pfirst, p.noindent {text-indent: 0}
+    span.dropcap         { float: left; margin: 0 0.1em 0 0; line-height: 0.8 }
+    pre        { font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: 100%; margin-left: 10%;}
+</style>
+  </head>
+  <body>
+<pre>
+
+The Project Gutenberg EBook of Bay, by D. H. Lawrence
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
+
+
+Title: Bay
+       A Book of Poems
+
+Author: D. H. Lawrence
+
+Release Date: September 23, 2007 [EBook #22734]
+Last Updated: April 19, 2019
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BAY ***
+
+
+
+
+Etext produced by Lewis Jones
+
+HTML file produced by David Widger
+
+
+
+D.H. Lawrence (1919) _Bay: A Book of Poems_
+
+
+Transcriber's Note: These poems were first published
+by the Beaumont Press in a limited edition. Facsimile
+page images from the original publication, including
+facsimile images of the original coloured illustrations
+by Anne Estelle Rice, are freely available from the
+Internet Archive.
+
+
+
+
+</pre>
+
+    <div style="height: 8em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h1>
+      BAY
+    </h1>
+    <h3>
+      A Book Of Poems
+    </h3>
+    <h2>
+      By D. H. Lawrence
+    </h2>
+    <h3>
+      1919
+    </h3>
+    <p>
+      <br /> <br />
+    </p>
+    <h3>
+      TO CYNTHIA ASQUITH
+    </h3>
+    <p>
+      <br /> <br />
+    </p>
+    <hr />
+    <p>
+      <br /> <br />
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <b>CONTENTS</b>
+    </p>
+    <p class="toc">
+      <a href="#link2H_4_0001"> GUARDS! </a>
+    </p>
+    <p class="toc">
+      <a href="#link2H_4_0002"> EVOLUTIONS OF SOLDIERS </a>
+    </p>
+    <p class="toc">
+      <a href="#link2H_4_0003"> THE LITTLE TOWN AT EVENING </a>
+    </p>
+    <p class="toc">
+      <a href="#link2H_4_0004"> LAST HOURS </a>
+    </p>
+    <p class="toc">
+      <a href="#link2H_4_0005"> TOWN </a>
+    </p>
+    <p class="toc">
+      <a href="#link2H_4_0006"> AFTER THE OPERA </a>
+    </p>
+    <p class="toc">
+      <a href="#link2H_4_0007"> GOING BACK </a>
+    </p>
+    <p class="toc">
+      <a href="#link2H_4_0008"> ON THE MARCH </a>
+    </p>
+    <p class="toc">
+      <a href="#link2H_4_0009"> BOMBARDMENT </a>
+    </p>
+    <p class="toc">
+      <a href="#link2H_4_0010"> WINTER-LULL </a>
+    </p>
+    <p class="toc">
+      <a href="#link2H_4_0011"> THE ATTACK </a>
+    </p>
+    <p class="toc">
+      <a href="#link2H_4_0012"> OBSEQUIAL ODE </a>
+    </p>
+    <p class="toc">
+      <a href="#link2H_4_0013"> SHADES </a>
+    </p>
+    <p class="toc">
+      <a href="#link2H_4_0014"> BREAD UPON THE WATERS. </a>
+    </p>
+    <p class="toc">
+      <a href="#link2H_4_0015"> RUINATION </a>
+    </p>
+    <p class="toc">
+      <a href="#link2H_4_0016"> RONDEAU OF A CONSCIENTIOUS </a>
+    </p>
+    <p class="toc">
+      <a href="#link2H_4_0017"> TOMMIES IN THE TRAIN </a>
+    </p>
+    <p class="toc">
+      <a href="#link2H_4_0018"> WAR-BABY </a>
+    </p>
+    <p class="toc">
+      <a href="#link2H_4_0019"> NOSTALGIA </a>
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <br /><br />
+    </p>
+    <hr />
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001"> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      GUARDS!
+    </h2>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+     A Review in Hyde Park 1913.
+     The Crowd Watches.
+</pre>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+WHERE the trees rise like cliffs, proud and
+       blue-tinted in the distance,
+     Between the cliffs of the trees, on the grey-
+       green park
+     Rests a still line of soldiers, red motionless range of
+       guards
+     Smouldering with darkened busbies beneath the bay-
+       onets' slant rain.
+
+     Colossal in nearness a blue police sits still on his horse
+     Guarding the path; his hand relaxed at his thigh,
+     And skyward his face is immobile, eyelids aslant
+     In tedium, and mouth relaxed as if smiling&mdash;ineffable
+     tedium!
+
+     So! So! Gaily a general canters across the space,
+     With white plumes blinking under the evening grey
+       sky.
+     And suddenly, as if the ground moved
+     The red range heaves in slow, magnetic reply.
+</pre>
+    <p>
+      <br /><br />
+    </p>
+    <hr />
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2H_4_0002" id="link2H_4_0002"> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      EVOLUTIONS OF SOLDIERS
+    </h2>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+     The red range heaves and compulsory sways, ah see!
+       in the flush of a march
+     Softly-impulsive advancing as water towards a weir
+       from the arch
+     Of shadow emerging as blood emerges from inward
+       shades of our night
+     Encroaching towards a crisis, a meeting, a spasm and
+       throb of delight.
+
+     The wave of soldiers, the coming wave, the throbbing
+       red breast of approach
+     Upon us; dark eyes as here beneath the busbies glit-
+       tering, dark threats that broach
+     Our beached vessel; darkened rencontre inhuman, and
+       closed warm lips, and dark
+     Mouth-hair of soldiers passing above us, over the wreck
+       of our bark.
+
+     And so, it is ebb-time, they turn, the eyes beneath the
+       busbies are gone.
+     But the blood has suspended its timbre, the heart from
+       out of oblivion
+     Knows but the retreat of the burning shoulders, the
+       red-swift waves of the sweet
+     Fire horizontal declining and ebbing, the twilit ebb of
+       retreat.
+</pre>
+    <p>
+      <br /><br />
+    </p>
+    <hr />
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2H_4_0003" id="link2H_4_0003"> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      THE LITTLE TOWN AT EVENING
+    </h2>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+THE chime of the bells, and the church clock
+       striking eight
+     Solemnly and distinctly cries down the babel
+       of children still playing in the hay.
+     The church draws nearer upon us, gentle and great
+     In shadow, covering us up with her grey.
+
+     Like drowsy children the houses fall asleep
+     Under the fleece of shadow, as in between
+     Tall and dark the church moves, anxious to keep
+     Their sleeping, cover them soft unseen.
+
+     Hardly a murmur comes from the sleeping brood,
+     I wish the church had covered me up with the rest
+     In the home-place. Why is it she should exclude
+     Me so distinctly from sleeping with those I love best?
+</pre>
+    <p>
+      <br /><br />
+    </p>
+    <hr />
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2H_4_0004" id="link2H_4_0004"> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      LAST HOURS
+    </h2>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+THE cool of an oak's unchequered shade
+     Falls on me as I lie in deep grass
+     Which rushes upward, blade beyond blade,
+     While higher the darting grass-flowers pass
+     Piercing the blue with their crocketed spires
+     And waving flags, and the ragged fires
+     Of the sorrel's cresset&mdash;a green, brave town
+     Vegetable, new in renown.
+
+     Over the tree's edge, as over a mountain
+     Surges the white of the moon,
+     A cloud comes up like the surge of a fountain,
+     Pressing round and low at first, but soon
+     Heaving and piling a round white dome.
+     How lovely it is to be at home
+     Like an insect in the grass
+     Letting life pass.
+
+     There's a scent of clover crept through my hair
+     From the full resource of some purple dome
+     Where that lumbering bee, who can hardly bear
+     His burden above me, never has clomb.
+     But not even the scent of insouciant flowers
+     Makes pause the hours.
+
+     Down the valley roars a townward train.
+     I hear it through the grass
+     Dragging the links of my shortening chain
+     Southwards, alas!
+</pre>
+    <p>
+      <br /><br />
+    </p>
+    <hr />
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2H_4_0005" id="link2H_4_0005"> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      TOWN
+    </h2>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+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.
+</pre>
+    <p>
+      <br /><br />
+    </p>
+    <hr />
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2H_4_0006" id="link2H_4_0006"> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      AFTER THE OPERA
+    </h2>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+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.
+</pre>
+    <p>
+      <br /><br />
+    </p>
+    <hr />
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2H_4_0007" id="link2H_4_0007"> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      GOING BACK
+    </h2>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+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.
+</pre>
+    <p>
+      <br /><br />
+    </p>
+    <hr />
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2H_4_0008" id="link2H_4_0008"> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      ON THE MARCH
+    </h2>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+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.
+
+     From the sky, the low, tired moon fades out;
+     Through the poplars the night-wind blows;
+     Pale, sleepy phantoms are tossed about
+     As the wind asks whither the wan road goes.
+
+     Away in the distance wakes a lamp.
+     Inscrutable small lights glitter in rows.
+     But they come no nearer, and still we tramp
+     Onward, wherever the strange road goes.
+
+     Beat after beat falls sombre and dull.
+     The wind is unchanging, not one of us knows
+     What will be in the final lull
+     When we find the place where this dead road goes.
+
+     For something must come, since we pass and pass
+     Along in the coiled, convulsive throes
+     Of this marching, along with the invisible grass
+     That goes wherever this old road goes.
+
+     Perhaps we shall come to oblivion.
+     Perhaps we shall march till our tired toes
+     Tread over the edge of the pit, and we're gone
+     Down the endless slope where the last road goes.
+
+     If so, let us forge ahead, straight on
+     If we're going to sleep the sleep with those
+     That fall forever, knowing none
+     Of this land whereon the wrong road goes.
+</pre>
+    <p>
+      <br /><br />
+    </p>
+    <hr />
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2H_4_0009" id="link2H_4_0009"> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      BOMBARDMENT
+    </h2>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+THE TOWN has opened to the sun.
+     Like a flat red lily with a million petals
+     She unfolds, she comes undone.
+
+     A sharp sky brushes upon
+     The myriad glittering chimney-tips
+     As she gently exhales to the sun.
+
+     Hurrying creatures run
+     Down the labyrinth of the sinister flower.
+     What is it they shun?
+
+     A dark bird falls from the sun.
+     It curves in a rush to the heart of the vast
+     Flower: the day has begun.
+</pre>
+    <p>
+      <br /><br />
+    </p>
+    <hr />
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2H_4_0010" id="link2H_4_0010"> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      WINTER-LULL
+    </h2>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+     Because of the silent snow, we are all hushed
+               Into awe.
+     No sound of guns, nor overhead no rushed
+               Vibration to draw
+     Our attention out of the void wherein we are crushed.
+
+     A crow floats past on level wings
+               Noiselessly.
+     Uninterrupted silence swings
+               Invisibly, inaudibly
+     To and fro in our misgivings.
+
+     We do not look at each other, we hide
+               Our daunted eyes.
+     White earth, and ruins, ourselves, and nothing beside.
+               It all belies
+     Our existence; we wait, and are still denied.
+
+     We are folded together, men and the snowy ground
+               Into nullity.
+     There is silence, only the silence, never a sound
+               Nor a verity
+     To assist us; disastrously silence-bound!
+</pre>
+    <p>
+      <br /><br />
+    </p>
+    <hr />
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2H_4_0011" id="link2H_4_0011"> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      THE ATTACK
+    </h2>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+WHEN we came out of the wood
+     Was a great light!
+     The night uprisen stood
+     In white.
+
+     I wondered, I looked around
+     It was so fair. The bright
+     Stubble upon the ground
+     Shone white
+
+     Like any field of snow;
+     Yet warm the chase
+     Of faint night-breaths did go
+     Across my face!
+
+     White-bodied and warm the night was,
+     Sweet-scented to hold in my throat.
+     White and alight the night was.
+     A pale stroke smote
+
+     The pulse through the whole bland being
+     Which was This and me;
+     A pulse that still went fleeing,
+     Yet did not flee.
+
+     After the terrible rage, the death,
+     This wonder stood glistening?
+     All shapes of wonder, with suspended breath,
+     Arrested listening
+
+     In ecstatic reverie.
+     The whole, white Night!&mdash;
+     With wonder, every black tree
+     Blossomed outright.
+
+     I saw the transfiguration
+     And the present Host.
+     Transubstantiation
+     Of the Luminous Ghost.
+</pre>
+    <p>
+      <br /><br />
+    </p>
+    <hr />
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2H_4_0012" id="link2H_4_0012"> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      OBSEQUIAL ODE
+    </h2>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+SURELY you've trodden straight
+     To the very door!
+     Surely you took your fate
+     Faultlessly. Now it's too late
+     To say more.
+
+         It is evident you were right,
+         That man has a course to go
+     A voyage to sail beyond the charted seas.
+     You have passed from out of sight
+         And my questions blow
+     Back from the straight horizon that ends all one sees.
+
+         Now like a vessel in port
+         You unlade your riches unto death,
+     And glad are the eager dead to receive you there.
+         Let the dead sort
+     Your cargo out, breath from breath
+     Let them disencumber your bounty, let them all share.
+
+         I imagine dead hands are brighter,
+         Their fingers in sunset shine
+     With jewels of passion once broken through you as a
+       prism
+     Breaks light into jewels; and dead breasts whiter
+         For your wrath; and yes, I opine
+     They anoint their brows with your blood, as a perfect
+       chrism.
+
+         On your body, the beaten anvil,
+         Was hammered out
+     That moon-like sword the ascendant dead unsheathe
+     Against us; sword that no man will
+         Put to rout;
+     Sword that severs the question from us who breathe.
+
+     Surely you've trodden straight
+         To the very door.
+     You have surely achieved your fate;
+     And the perfect dead are elate
+         To have won once more.
+
+     Now to the dead you are giving
+         Your last allegiance.
+     But what of us who are living
+     And fearful yet of believing
+         In your pitiless legions.
+</pre>
+    <p>
+      <br /><br />
+    </p>
+    <hr />
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2H_4_0013" id="link2H_4_0013"> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      SHADES
+    </h2>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+SHALL I tell you, then, how it is?&mdash;
+     There came a cloven gleam
+     Like a tongue of darkened flame
+     To flicker in me.
+
+     And so I seem
+     To have you still the same
+     In one world with me.
+
+     In the flicker of a flower,
+     In a worm that is blind, yet strives,
+     In a mouse that pauses to listen
+
+     Glimmers our
+     Shadow; yet it deprives
+     Them none of their glisten.
+
+     In every shaken morsel
+     I see our shadow tremble
+     As if it rippled from out of us hand in hand.
+
+     As if it were part and parcel,
+     One shadow, and we need not dissemble
+     Our darkness: do you understand?
+
+     For I have told you plainly how it is.
+</pre>
+    <p>
+      <br /><br />
+    </p>
+    <hr />
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2H_4_0014" id="link2H_4_0014"> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      BREAD UPON THE WATERS.
+    </h2>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+SO you are lost to me!
+     Ah you, you ear of corn straight lying,
+     What food is this for the darkly flying
+     Fowls of the Afterwards!
+
+     White bread afloat on the waters,
+     Cast out by the hand that scatters
+     Food untowards,
+
+     Will you come back when the tide turns?
+     After many days? My heart yearns
+     To know.
+
+     Will you return after many days
+     To say your say as a traveller says,
+     More marvel than woe?
+
+     Drift then, for the sightless birds
+     And the fish in shadow-waved herds
+     To approach you.
+
+     Drift then, bread cast out;
+     Drift, lest I fall in doubt,
+     And reproach you.
+
+     For you are lost to me!
+</pre>
+    <p>
+      <br /><br />
+    </p>
+    <hr />
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2H_4_0015" id="link2H_4_0015"> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      RUINATION
+    </h2>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+THE sun is bleeding its fires upon the mist
+     That huddles in grey heaps coiling and holding
+       back.
+     Like cliffs abutting in shadow a drear grey sea
+     Some street-ends thrust forward their stack.
+
+     On the misty waste-lands, away from the flushing grey
+     Of the morning the elms are loftily dimmed, and tall
+     As if moving in air towards us, tall angels
+     Of darkness advancing steadily over us all.
+</pre>
+    <p>
+      <br /><br />
+    </p>
+    <hr />
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2H_4_0016" id="link2H_4_0016"> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      RONDEAU OF A CONSCIENTIOUS
+    </h2>
+    <h3>
+      OBJECTOR.
+    </h3>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+THE hours have tumbled their leaden, mono-
+       tonous sands
+     And piled them up in a dull grey heap in the
+       West.
+     I carry my patience sullenly through the waste lands;
+     To-morrow will pour them all back, the dull hours I
+       detest.
+
+     I force my cart through the sodden filth that is pressed
+     Into ooze, and the sombre dirt spouts up at my hands
+     As I make my way in twilight now to rest.
+     The hours have tumbled their leaden, monotonous
+       sands.
+
+     A twisted thorn-tree still in the evening stands
+     Defending the memory of leaves and the happy round
+       nest.
+     But mud has flooded the homes of these weary lands
+     And piled them up in a dull grey heap in the West.
+
+     All day has the clank of iron on iron distressed
+     The nerve-bare place. Now a little silence expands
+     And a gasp of relief. But the soul is still compressed:
+     I carry my patience sullenly through the waste lands.
+
+     The hours have ceased to fall, and a star commands
+     Shadows to cover our stricken manhood, and blest
+     Sleep to make us forget: but he understands:
+     To-morrow will pour them all back, the dull hours
+       I detest.
+</pre>
+    <p>
+      <br /><br />
+    </p>
+    <hr />
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2H_4_0017" id="link2H_4_0017"> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      TOMMIES IN THE TRAIN
+    </h2>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+THE SUN SHINES,
+     The coltsfoot flowers along the railway banks
+     Shine like flat coin which Jove in thanks
+     Strews each side the lines.
+
+     A steeple
+     In purple elms, daffodils
+     Sparkle beneath; luminous hills
+     Beyond&mdash;and no people.
+
+     England, Oh Danaë
+     To this spring of cosmic gold
+     That falls on your lap of mould!
+     What then are we?
+
+     What are we
+     Clay-coloured, who roll in fatigue
+     As the train falls league by league
+     From our destiny?
+
+     A hand is over my face,
+     A cold hand. I peep between the fingers
+     To watch the world that lingers
+     Behind, yet keeps pace.
+
+     Always there, as I peep
+     Between the fingers that cover my face!
+     Which then is it that falls from its place
+     And rolls down the steep?
+
+     Is it the train
+     That falls like meteorite
+     Backward into space, to alight
+     Never again?
+
+     Or is it the illusory world
+     That falls from reality
+     As we look? Or are we
+     Like a thunderbolt hurled?
+
+     One or another
+     Is lost, since we fall apart
+     Endlessly, in one motion depart
+     From each other.
+</pre>
+    <p>
+      <br /><br />
+    </p>
+    <hr />
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2H_4_0018" id="link2H_4_0018"> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      WAR-BABY
+    </h2>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+THE CHILD like mustard-seed
+     Rolls out of the husk of death
+        Into the woman's fertile, fathomless lap.
+
+     Look, it has taken root!
+     See how it flourisheth.
+        See how it rises with magical, rosy sap!
+
+     As for our faith, it was there
+     When we did not know, did not care;
+        It fell from our husk like a little, hasty seed.
+
+     Sing, it is all we need.
+     Sing, for the little weed
+        Will flourish its branches in heaven when we
+          slumber beneath.
+</pre>
+    <p>
+      <br /><br />
+    </p>
+    <hr />
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2H_4_0019" id="link2H_4_0019"> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      NOSTALGIA
+    </h2>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+THE WANING MOON looks upward; this
+        grey night
+     Slopes round the heavens in one smooth curve
+     Of easy sailing; odd red wicks serve
+     To show where the ships at sea move out of sight.
+
+     The place is palpable me, for here I was born
+     Of this self-same darkness. Yet the shadowy house
+        below
+     Is out of bounds, and only the old ghosts know
+     I have come, I feel them whimper in welcome, and
+        mourn.
+
+     My father suddenly died in the harvesting corn
+     And the place is no longer ours. Watching, I hear
+     No sound from the strangers, the place is dark, and fear
+     Opens my eyes till the roots of my vision seems torn.
+
+     Can I go no nearer, never towards the door?
+     The ghosts and I we mourn together, and shrink
+     In the shadow of the cart-shed. Must we hover on
+        the brink
+     Forever, and never enter the homestead any more?
+
+     Is it irrevocable? Can I really not go
+     Through the open yard-way? Can I not go past the
+        sheds
+     And through to the mowie?&mdash;Only the dead in their
+        beds
+     Can know the fearful anguish that this is so.
+
+     I kiss the stones, I kiss the moss on the wall,
+     And wish I could pass impregnate into the place.
+     I wish I could take it all in a last embrace.
+     I wish with my breast I here could annihilate it all.
+</pre>
+    <div style="height: 6em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+<pre>
+
+
+End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Bay, by D. H. Lawrence
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diff --git a/22734.txt b/22734.txt
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--- /dev/null
+++ b/22734.txt
@@ -0,0 +1,1109 @@
+The Project Gutenberg EBook of Bay, by D. H. Lawrence
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
+
+
+Title: Bay
+       A Book of Poems
+
+Author: D. H. Lawrence
+
+Release Date: September 23, 2007 [EBook #22734]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: ASCII
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BAY ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by Lewis Jones
+
+
+
+
+
+D.H. Lawrence (1919) _Bay: A Book of Poems_
+
+
+Transcriber's Note: These poems were first published
+by the Beaumont Press in a limited edition. Facsimile
+page images from the original publication, including
+facsimile images of the original coloured illustrations
+by Anne Estelle Rice, are freely available from the
+Internet Archive.
+
+
+BAY . . A BOOK
+OF . . POEMS . . BY
+D: H: LAWRENCE
+
+
+
+To Cynthia Asquith
+
+
+
+CONTENTS
+
+
+GUARDS
+  Where the trees rise like cliffs
+
+THE LITTLE TOWN AT EVENING
+  The chime of the bells
+
+LAST HOURS
+  The cool of an oak's unchequered shade
+
+TOWN
+  London
+
+AFTER THE OPERA
+  Down the stone stairs
+
+GOING BACK
+  The night turns slowly round
+
+ON THE MARCH
+  We are out on the open road
+
+BOMBARDMENT
+  The town has opened to the sun
+
+WINTER-LULL
+  Because of the silent snow
+
+THE ATTACK
+  When we came out of the wood
+
+OBSEQUIAL ODE
+  Surely you've trodden straight
+
+SHADES
+  Shall I tell you, then, how it is?--
+
+BREAD UPON THE WATERS
+  So you are lost to me
+
+RUINATION
+  The sun is bleeding its fires upon the mist
+
+RONDEAU
+  The hours have tumbled their leaden sands
+
+TOMMIES IN THE TRAIN
+  The sun shines
+
+WAR-BABY
+  The child like mustard-seed
+
+NOSTALGIA
+  The waning moon looks upward
+
+COLOPHON
+
+
+
+
+
+GUARDS!
+
+A Review in Hyde Park 1913.
+The Crowd Watches.
+
+WHERE the trees rise like cliffs, proud and
+  blue-tinted in the distance,
+Between the cliffs of the trees, on the grey-
+  green park
+Rests a still line of soldiers, red motionless range of
+  guards
+Smouldering with darkened busbies beneath the bay-
+  onets' slant rain.
+
+Colossal in nearness a blue police sits still on his horse
+Guarding the path; his hand relaxed at his thigh,
+And skyward his face is immobile, eyelids aslant
+In tedium, and mouth relaxed as if smiling--ineffable
+tedium!
+
+So! So! Gaily a general canters across the space,
+With white plumes blinking under the evening grey
+  sky.
+And suddenly, as if the ground moved
+The red range heaves in slow, magnetic reply.
+
+EVOLUTIONS OF SOLDIERS
+
+The red range heaves and compulsory sways, ah see!
+  in the flush of a march
+Softly-impulsive advancing as water towards a weir
+  from the arch
+Of shadow emerging as blood emerges from inward
+  shades of our night
+Encroaching towards a crisis, a meeting, a spasm and
+  throb of delight.
+
+The wave of soldiers, the coming wave, the throbbing
+  red breast of approach
+Upon us; dark eyes as here beneath the busbies glit-
+  tering, dark threats that broach
+Our beached vessel; darkened rencontre inhuman, and
+  closed warm lips, and dark
+Mouth-hair of soldiers passing above us, over the wreck
+  of our bark.
+
+And so, it is ebb-time, they turn, the eyes beneath the
+  busbies are gone.
+But the blood has suspended its timbre, the heart from
+  out of oblivion
+Knows but the retreat of the burning shoulders, the
+  red-swift waves of the sweet
+Fire horizontal declining and ebbing, the twilit ebb of
+  retreat.
+
+
+THE LITTLE TOWN AT EVENING
+
+THE chime of the bells, and the church clock
+  striking eight
+Solemnly and distinctly cries down the babel
+  of children still playing in the hay.
+The church draws nearer upon us, gentle and great
+In shadow, covering us up with her grey.
+
+Like drowsy children the houses fall asleep
+Under the fleece of shadow, as in between
+Tall and dark the church moves, anxious to keep
+Their sleeping, cover them soft unseen.
+
+Hardly a murmur comes from the sleeping brood,
+I wish the church had covered me up with the rest
+In the home-place. Why is it she should exclude
+Me so distinctly from sleeping with those I love best?
+
+
+LAST HOURS
+
+THE cool of an oak's unchequered shade
+Falls on me as I lie in deep grass
+Which rushes upward, blade beyond blade,
+While higher the darting grass-flowers pass
+Piercing the blue with their crocketed spires
+And waving flags, and the ragged fires
+Of the sorrel's cresset--a green, brave town
+Vegetable, new in renown.
+
+Over the tree's edge, as over a mountain
+Surges the white of the moon,
+A cloud comes up like the surge of a fountain,
+Pressing round and low at first, but soon
+Heaving and piling a round white dome.
+How lovely it is to be at home
+Like an insect in the grass
+Letting life pass.
+
+There's a scent of clover crept through my hair
+From the full resource of some purple dome
+Where that lumbering bee, who can hardly bear
+His burden above me, never has clomb.
+But not even the scent of insouciant flowers
+Makes pause the hours.
+
+Down the valley roars a townward train.
+I hear it through the grass
+Dragging the links of my shortening chain
+Southwards, alas!
+
+
+TOWN
+
+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
+
+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
+
+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
+
+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.
+
+From the sky, the low, tired moon fades out;
+Through the poplars the night-wind blows;
+Pale, sleepy phantoms are tossed about
+As the wind asks whither the wan road goes.
+
+Away in the distance wakes a lamp.
+Inscrutable small lights glitter in rows.
+But they come no nearer, and still we tramp
+Onward, wherever the strange road goes.
+
+Beat after beat falls sombre and dull.
+The wind is unchanging, not one of us knows
+What will be in the final lull
+When we find the place where this dead road goes.
+
+For something must come, since we pass and pass
+Along in the coiled, convulsive throes
+Of this marching, along with the invisible grass
+That goes wherever this old road goes.
+
+Perhaps we shall come to oblivion.
+Perhaps we shall march till our tired toes
+Tread over the edge of the pit, and we're gone
+Down the endless slope where the last road goes.
+
+If so, let us forge ahead, straight on
+If we're going to sleep the sleep with those
+That fall forever, knowing none
+Of this land whereon the wrong road goes.
+
+
+BOMBARDMENT
+
+THE TOWN has opened to the sun.
+Like a flat red lily with a million petals
+She unfolds, she comes undone.
+
+A sharp sky brushes upon
+The myriad glittering chimney-tips
+As she gently exhales to the sun.
+
+Hurrying creatures run
+Down the labyrinth of the sinister flower.
+What is it they shun?
+
+A dark bird falls from the sun.
+It curves in a rush to the heart of the vast
+Flower: the day has begun.
+
+
+WINTER-LULL
+
+Because of the silent snow, we are all hushed
+          Into awe.
+No sound of guns, nor overhead no rushed
+          Vibration to draw
+Our attention out of the void wherein we are crushed.
+
+A crow floats past on level wings
+          Noiselessly.
+Uninterrupted silence swings
+          Invisibly, inaudibly
+To and fro in our misgivings.
+
+We do not look at each other, we hide
+          Our daunted eyes.
+White earth, and ruins, ourselves, and nothing beside.
+          It all belies
+Our existence; we wait, and are still denied.
+
+We are folded together, men and the snowy ground
+          Into nullity.
+There is silence, only the silence, never a sound
+          Nor a verity
+To assist us; disastrously silence-bound!
+
+
+THE ATTACK
+
+WHEN we came out of the wood
+Was a great light!
+The night uprisen stood
+In white.
+
+I wondered, I looked around
+It was so fair. The bright
+Stubble upon the ground
+Shone white
+
+Like any field of snow;
+Yet warm the chase
+Of faint night-breaths did go
+Across my face!
+
+White-bodied and warm the night was,
+Sweet-scented to hold in my throat.
+White and alight the night was.
+A pale stroke smote
+
+The pulse through the whole bland being
+Which was This and me;
+A pulse that still went fleeing,
+Yet did not flee.
+
+After the terrible rage, the death,
+This wonder stood glistening?
+All shapes of wonder, with suspended breath,
+Arrested listening
+
+In ecstatic reverie.
+The whole, white Night!--
+With wonder, every black tree
+Blossomed outright.
+
+I saw the transfiguration
+And the present Host.
+Transubstantiation
+Of the Luminous Ghost.
+
+
+OBSEQUIAL ODE
+
+SURELY you've trodden straight
+To the very door!
+Surely you took your fate
+Faultlessly. Now it's too late
+To say more.
+
+    It is evident you were right,
+    That man has a course to go
+A voyage to sail beyond the charted seas.
+You have passed from out of sight
+    And my questions blow
+Back from the straight horizon that ends all one sees.
+
+    Now like a vessel in port
+    You unlade your riches unto death,
+And glad are the eager dead to receive you there.
+    Let the dead sort
+Your cargo out, breath from breath
+Let them disencumber your bounty, let them all share.
+
+    I imagine dead hands are brighter,
+    Their fingers in sunset shine
+With jewels of passion once broken through you as a
+  prism
+Breaks light into jewels; and dead breasts whiter
+    For your wrath; and yes, I opine
+They anoint their brows with your blood, as a perfect
+  chrism.
+
+    On your body, the beaten anvil,
+    Was hammered out
+That moon-like sword the ascendant dead unsheathe
+Against us; sword that no man will
+    Put to rout;
+Sword that severs the question from us who breathe.
+
+Surely you've trodden straight
+    To the very door.
+You have surely achieved your fate;
+And the perfect dead are elate
+    To have won once more.
+
+Now to the dead you are giving
+    Your last allegiance.
+But what of us who are living
+And fearful yet of believing
+    In your pitiless legions.
+
+
+SHADES
+
+SHALL I tell you, then, how it is?--
+There came a cloven gleam
+Like a tongue of darkened flame
+To flicker in me.
+
+And so I seem
+To have you still the same
+In one world with me.
+
+In the flicker of a flower,
+In a worm that is blind, yet strives,
+In a mouse that pauses to listen
+
+Glimmers our
+Shadow; yet it deprives
+Them none of their glisten.
+
+In every shaken morsel
+I see our shadow tremble
+As if it rippled from out of us hand in hand.
+
+As if it were part and parcel,
+One shadow, and we need not dissemble
+Our darkness: do you understand?
+
+For I have told you plainly how it is.
+
+
+BREAD UPON THE WATERS.
+
+SO you are lost to me!
+Ah you, you ear of corn straight lying,
+What food is this for the darkly flying
+Fowls of the Afterwards!
+
+White bread afloat on the waters,
+Cast out by the hand that scatters
+Food untowards,
+
+Will you come back when the tide turns?
+After many days? My heart yearns
+To know.
+
+Will you return after many days
+To say your say as a traveller says,
+More marvel than woe?
+
+Drift then, for the sightless birds
+And the fish in shadow-waved herds
+To approach you.
+
+Drift then, bread cast out;
+Drift, lest I fall in doubt,
+And reproach you.
+
+For you are lost to me!
+
+
+RUINATION
+
+THE sun is bleeding its fires upon the mist
+That huddles in grey heaps coiling and holding
+  back.
+Like cliffs abutting in shadow a drear grey sea
+Some street-ends thrust forward their stack.
+
+On the misty waste-lands, away from the flushing grey
+Of the morning the elms are loftily dimmed, and tall
+As if moving in air towards us, tall angels
+Of darkness advancing steadily over us all.
+
+
+RONDEAU OF A CONSCIENTIOUS
+OBJECTOR.
+
+THE hours have tumbled their leaden, mono-
+  tonous sands
+And piled them up in a dull grey heap in the
+  West.
+I carry my patience sullenly through the waste lands;
+To-morrow will pour them all back, the dull hours I
+  detest.
+
+I force my cart through the sodden filth that is pressed
+Into ooze, and the sombre dirt spouts up at my hands
+As I make my way in twilight now to rest.
+The hours have tumbled their leaden, monotonous
+  sands.
+
+A twisted thorn-tree still in the evening stands
+Defending the memory of leaves and the happy round
+  nest.
+But mud has flooded the homes of these weary lands
+And piled them up in a dull grey heap in the West.
+
+All day has the clank of iron on iron distressed
+The nerve-bare place. Now a little silence expands
+And a gasp of relief. But the soul is still compressed:
+I carry my patience sullenly through the waste lands.
+
+The hours have ceased to fall, and a star commands
+Shadows to cover our stricken manhood, and blest
+Sleep to make us forget: but he understands:
+To-morrow will pour them all back, the dull hours
+  I detest.
+
+
+TOMMIES IN THE TRAIN
+
+THE SUN SHINES,
+The coltsfoot flowers along the railway banks
+Shine like flat coin which Jove in thanks
+Strews each side the lines.
+
+A steeple
+In purple elms, daffodils
+Sparkle beneath; luminous hills
+Beyond--and no people.
+
+England, Oh Danae
+To this spring of cosmic gold
+That falls on your lap of mould!
+What then are we?
+
+What are we
+Clay-coloured, who roll in fatigue
+As the train falls league by league
+From our destiny?
+
+A hand is over my face,
+A cold hand. I peep between the fingers
+To watch the world that lingers
+Behind, yet keeps pace.
+
+Always there, as I peep
+Between the fingers that cover my face!
+Which then is it that falls from its place
+And rolls down the steep?
+
+Is it the train
+That falls like meteorite
+Backward into space, to alight
+Never again?
+
+Or is it the illusory world
+That falls from reality
+As we look? Or are we
+Like a thunderbolt hurled?
+
+One or another
+Is lost, since we fall apart
+Endlessly, in one motion depart
+From each other.
+
+
+WAR-BABY
+
+THE CHILD like mustard-seed
+Rolls out of the husk of death
+   Into the woman's fertile, fathomless lap.
+
+Look, it has taken root!
+See how it flourisheth.
+   See how it rises with magical, rosy sap!
+
+As for our faith, it was there
+When we did not know, did not care;
+   It fell from our husk like a little, hasty seed.
+
+Sing, it is all we need.
+Sing, for the little weed
+   Will flourish its branches in heaven when we
+     slumber beneath.
+
+
+NOSTALGIA
+
+THE WANING MOON looks upward; this
+   grey night
+Slopes round the heavens in one smooth curve
+Of easy sailing; odd red wicks serve
+To show where the ships at sea move out of sight.
+
+The place is palpable me, for here I was born
+Of this self-same darkness. Yet the shadowy house
+   below
+Is out of bounds, and only the old ghosts know
+I have come, I feel them whimper in welcome, and
+   mourn.
+
+My father suddenly died in the harvesting corn
+And the place is no longer ours. Watching, I hear
+No sound from the strangers, the place is dark, and fear
+Opens my eyes till the roots of my vision seems torn.
+
+Can I go no nearer, never towards the door?
+The ghosts and I we mourn together, and shrink
+In the shadow of the cart-shed. Must we hover on
+   the brink
+Forever, and never enter the homestead any more?
+
+Is it irrevocable? Can I really not go
+Through the open yard-way? Can I not go past the
+   sheds
+And through to the mowie?--Only the dead in their
+   beds
+Can know the fearful anguish that this is so.
+
+I kiss the stones, I kiss the moss on the wall,
+And wish I could pass impregnate into the place.
+I wish I could take it all in a last embrace.
+I wish with my breast I here could annihilate it all.
+
+
+
+HERE   ENDS    BAY   A   BOOK   OF    POEMS   BY
+ D. H. Lawrence  The  Cover and the Decorations
+  designed by Anne Estelle Rice The Typography
+   and Binding arranged  by  Cyril W. Beaumont
+   Printed by Hand on his Press at 75 Charing
+     Cross Road in the City of Westminster
+      Completed November the Twentieth
+                 MDCCCCXIX
+
+
+[Logo] SIMPLEX . MUNDITIIS  . . . THE . BEAUMONT . PRESS
+
+
+Pressman             Charles Wright
+
+Compositor         C. W. Beaumont
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Bay, by D. H. Lawrence
+
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+Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for
+eBook #22734 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/22734)