British Culture · British Literature · Classic · Collection · Lyricism · Modernism · Poetry

D. H. Lawrence

IT is stormy, and raindrops cling like silver bees to the pane,    
The thin sycamores in the playground are swinging with flattened leaves;    
The heads of the boys move dimly through a yellow gloom that stains    
The class; over them all the dark net of my discipline weaves.    
It is no good, dear, gentleness and forbearance, I endured too long:            
I have pushed my hands in the dark soil, under the flower of my soul    
And the gentle leaves, and have felt where the roots are strong    
Fixed in the darkness, grappling for the deep soil’s little control.    
And there is the dark, my darling, where the roots are entangled and fight    
Each one for its hold on the oblivious darkness, I know that there            
In the night where we first have being, before we rise on the light,    
We are not brothers, my darling, we fight and we do not spare.    
And in the original dark the roots cannot keep, cannot know    
Any communion whatever, but they bind themselves on to the dark,    
And drawing the darkness together, crush from it a twilight, a slow            
Burning that breaks at last into leaves and a flower’s bright spark.    
I came to the boys with love, my dear, but they turned on me;    
I came with gentleness, with my heart ’twixt my hands like a bowl,    
Like a loving-cup, like a grail, but they spilt it triumphantly    
And tried to break the vessel, and to violate my soul.            
But what have I to do with the boys, deep down in my soul, my love?    
I throw from out of the darkness my self like a flower into sight,    
Like a flower from out of the night-time, I lift my face, and those    
Who will may warm their hands at me, comfort this night.    
But whosoever would pluck apart my flowering shall burn their hands,            
So flowers are tender folk, and roots can only hide,    
Yet my flowerings of love are a fire, and the scarlet brands    
Of my love are roses to look at, but flames to chide.    
But comfort me, my love, now the fires are low,    
Now I am broken to earth like a winter destroyed, and all            
Myself but a knowledge of roots, of roots in the dark that throw    
A net on the undersoil, which lies passive beneath their thrall.    
But comfort me, for henceforth my love is yours alone,    
To you alone will I offer the bowl, to you will I give    
My essence only, but love me, and I will atone            
To you for my general loving, atone as long as I live.

D. H. Lawrence,  Amores: Poems. (Kessinger Publishing, LLC October 17, 2007). Originally published in 1916.


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