D.H. LAWRENCE
SERVICE OF ALL THE DEAD
Between the avenues of cypresses, All in their scarlet cloaks, and surplices Of linen, go the chaunting choristers, The priests in gold and black, the villagers.
And all along the path to the cemetery The round, dark heads of men crowd silently, And black-scarved faces of women-folk, wistfully Watch at the banner of death, and the mystery.
And at the foot of a grave a father stands With sunken head, and forgotten, folded hands; And at the foot of a grave a woman kneels With pale shut face, and neither hears nor feels
The coming of the chaunting choristers Between the avenues of cypresses, The silence of the many villagers, The candle-flames beside the surplices.
MEETING AMONG THE MOUNTAINS
The little pansies by the road have turned Away their purple faces and their gold, And evening has taken all the bees from the thyme, And all the scent is shed away by the cold.
Against the hard and pale blue evening sky The mountain"s new-dropped summer snow is clear Glistening in steadfast stillness: like transcendent Clean pain sending on us a chill down here.
Christ on the Cross!--his beautiful young man"s body Has fallen dead upon the nails, and hangs White and loose at last, with all the pain Drawn on his mouth, eyes broken at last by his pangs.
And slowly down the mountain road, belated, A bullock wagon comes; so I am ashamed To gaze any more at the Christ, whom the mountain snows Whitely confront; I wait on the gra.s.s, am lamed.
The breath of the bullock stains the hard, chill air, The band is across its brow, and it scarcely seems To draw the load, so still and slow it moves, While the driver on the shaft sits crouched in dreams.
Surely about his sunburnt face is something That vexes me with wonder. He sits so still Here among all this silence, crouching forward, Dreaming and letting the bullock take its will.
I stand aside on the gra.s.s to let them go; --And Christ, I have met his accusing eyes again, The brown eyes black with misery and hate, that look Full in my own, and the torment starts again.
One moment the hate leaps at me standing there, One moment I see the stillness of agony, Something frozen in the silence that dare not be Loosed, one moment the darkness frightens me.
Then among the averted pansies, beneath the high White peaks of snow, at the foot of the sunken Christ I stand in a chill of anguish, trying to say The joy I bought was not too highly priced.
But he has gone, motionless, hating me, Living as the mountains do, because they are strong, With a pale, dead Christ on the crucifix of his heart, And breathing the frozen memory of his wrong.
Still in his nostrils the frozen breath of despair, And heart like a cross that bears dead agony Of naked love, clenched in his fists the shame, And in his belly the smouldering hate of me.
And I, as I stand in the cold, averted flowers, Feel the shame-wounds in his hands pierce through my own, And breathe despair that turns my lungs to stone And know the dead Christ weighing on my bone.
CRUELTY AND LOVE
What large, dark hands are those at the window Lifted, grasping in the yellow light Which makes its way through the curtain web At my heart to-night?
Ah, only the leaves! So leave me at rest, In the west I see a redness come Over the evening"s burning breast-- For now the pain is numb.
The woodbine creeps abroad Calling low to her lover: The sunlit flirt who all the day Has poised above her lips in play And stolen kisses, shallow and gay Of dalliance, now has gone away --She woos the moth with her sweet, low word, And when above her his broad wings hover Then her bright breast she will uncover And yield her honey-drop to her lover.
Into the yellow, evening glow Saunters a man from the farm below, Leans, and looks in at the low-built shed Where hangs the swallow"s marriage bed.
The bird lies warm against the wall.
She glances quick her startled eyes Towards him, then she turns away Her small head, making warm display Of red upon the throat. Her terrors sway Her out of the nest"s warm, busy ball,
Whose plaintive cries start up as she flies In one blue stoop from out the sties Into the evening"s empty hall.
Oh, water-hen, beside the rushes Hide your quaint, unfading blushes, Still your quick tail, and lie as dead, Till the distance covers his dangerous tread.
The rabbit presses back her ears, Turns back her liquid, anguished eyes And crouches low: then with wild spring Spurts from the terror of the oncoming To be choked back, the wire ring Her frantic effort throttling: Piteous brown ball of quivering fears!
Ah soon in his large, hard hands she dies, And swings all loose to the swing of his walk.
Yet calm and kindly are his eyes And ready to open in brown surprise Should I not answer to his talk Or should he my tears surmise.
I hear his hand on the latch, and rise from my chair Watching the door open: he flashes bare His strong teeth in a smile, and flashes his eyes In a smile like triumph upon me; then careless-wise He flings the rabbit soft on the table board And comes towards me: ah, the uplifted sword Of his hand against my bosom, and oh, the broad Blade of his hand that raises my face to applaud His coming: he raises up my face to him And caresses my mouth with his fingers, smelling grim Of the rabbit"s fur! G.o.d, I am caught in a snare I know not what fine wire is round my throat, I only know I let him finger there My pulse of life, letting him nose like a stoat Who sniffs with joy before he drinks the blood: And down his mouth comes to my mouth, and down His dark bright eyes descend like a fiery hood Upon my mind: his mouth meets mine, and a flood Of sweet fire sweeps across me, so I drown Within him, die, and find death good.
FRANCIS LEDWIDGE
THE WIFE OF LLEW
And Gwydion said to Math, when it was Spring: "Come now and let us make a wife for Llew."
And so they broke broad boughs yet moist with dew, And in a shadow made a magic ring: They took the violet and the meadow-sweet To form her pretty face, and for her feet They built a mound of daisies on a wing, And for her voice they made a linnet sing In the wide poppy blowing for her mouth.
And over all they chanted twenty hours.
And Llew came singing from the azure south And bore away his wife of birds and flowers.
A RAINY DAY IN APRIL
When the clouds shake their hyssops, and the rain Like holy water falls upon the plain, "Tis sweet to gaze upon the springing grain And see your harvest born.
And sweet the little breeze of melody The blackbird puffs upon the budding tree, While the wild poppy lights upon the lea And blazes "mid the corn.