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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/22734-8.txt b/22734-8.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..b31f254 --- /dev/null +++ b/22734-8.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: 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 *** + +***** This file should be named 22734-8.txt or 22734-8.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/2/2/7/3/22734/ + +Produced by Lewis Jones + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, +set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to +copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to +protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. Project +Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you +charge for the eBooks, unless you receive specific permission. 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Thus, we do not necessarily +keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition. + + +Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility: + + http://www.gutenberg.org + +This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, +including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to +subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. diff --git a/22734-8.zip b/22734-8.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..5791111 --- /dev/null +++ b/22734-8.zip diff --git a/22734-h.zip b/22734-h.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..ae9ca77 --- /dev/null +++ b/22734-h.zip diff --git a/22734-h/22734-h.htm b/22734-h/22734-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..48e8f70 --- /dev/null +++ b/22734-h/22734-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,1393 @@ +<?xml version="1.0" encoding="iso-8859-1"?> + +<!DOCTYPE html + 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—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—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!— + 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?— + 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—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?—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 + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BAY *** + +***** This file should be named 22734-h.htm or 22734-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/2/2/7/3/22734/ + +Etext produced by Lewis Jones + +HTML file produced by David Widger + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, +set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to +copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to +protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. 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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. 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