To Nottingham,” — Eh dear o’ me
If ‘e’s not a man for mischance!
Wheers he hurt this time, lad?
— I dunna know,
They on’y towd me it wor bad —
It would be so!
Eh, what a man! — an’ that cobbly road,
They’ll jolt him a’most to death,
I’m sure he’s in for some trouble
Nigh every time he takes breath.
Out o’ my way, childt — dear o* me, wheer
Have I put his clean stockings and shirt;
Goodness knows if they’ll be able
To take off his pit dirt.
An’ what a moan he’ll make — there niver
Was such a man for a fuss
If anything ailed him — at any rate
I shan’t have him to nuss.
I do hope it’s not very bad!
Eh, what a shame it seems
As some should ha’e hardly a smite o’ trouble
An’ others has reams.
It’s a shame as ‘e should be knocked about
Like this, I’m sure it is!
He’s had twenty accidents, if he’s had one;
Owt bad, an’ it’s his.
There’s one thing, we ‘11 have peace for a bit,
Thank Heaven for a peaceful house;
An’ there’s compensation, sin’ it’s accident,
An’ club money — I nedn’t grouse.
An’ a fork an’ a spoon he’ll want, an’ what else;
I s’ll never catch that train —
What a trapse it is if a man gets hurt —
I s’d think he’ll get right again.
THE DRAINED CUP
The snow is witherin’ off n th’ gress
Love, should I tell thee summat?
The snow is witherin’ offn th’ gress
An’ a thick mist sucks at the clots o’ snow,
An’ the moon above in a weddin’ dress
Goes fogged an’ slow —
Love, should I tell thee summat?
Tha’s been snowed up i’ this cottage wi’ me.
Nay, I’m tellin’ thee summat. —
Tha’s bin snowed up i’ this cottage wi’ me
While th’ clocks has a’ run down an’ stopped
An’ the short days withering silently
Unbeknown have dropped.
— Yea, but I’m tellin’ thee summat.
How many days dost think has gone? —
Now I’m tellin’ thee summat.
How many days dost think has gone?
How many days has the candle-light shone
On us as tha got more white an’ wan?
— Seven days, or none —
Am I not tellin’ thee summat?
Tha come to bid farewell to me —
Tha’rt frit o’ summat.
To kiss me and shed a tear wi’ me,
Then off and away wi’ the weddin’ ring
For the girl who was grander, and better than me
For marrying —
Tha’rt frit o’ summat?
I durstna kiss thee tha trembles so,
Tha’rt frit o’ summat.
Tha arena very flig to go,
‘Appen the mist from the thawin’ snow
Daunts thee — it isna for love, I know,
That tha’rt loath to go.
— Dear o’ me, say summat.
Maun tha cling to the wa’ as tha goes.
So bad as that?
Tha’lt niver get into thy weddin clothes
At that rate — eh, theer goes thy hat;
Ne’er mind, good-bye lad, now I lose
My joy, God knows,
— An’ worse nor that.
The road goes under the apple tree;
Look, for I’m showin’ thee summat.
An’ if it worn’t for the mist, tha’d see
The great black wood on all sides o’ thee
Wi’ the little pads going cunningly
To ravel thee.
So listen, I’m tellin’ thee summat.
When tha comes to the beechen avenue,
I’m warnin’ thee o’ summat.
Mind tha shall keep inwards, a few
Steps to the right, for the gravel pits
Are steep an’ deep wi’ watter, an’ you
Are scarce o’ your wits.
Remember, I’ve warned thee o’ summat.
An’ mind when crossin’ the planken bridge,
Again I warn ye o’ summat.
Ye slip not on the slippery ridge
Of the thawin’ snow, or it’ll be
A long put-back to your gran’ marridge,
I’m tellin’ ye.
Nay, are ter scared o’ summat?
In kep the thick black curtains drawn,
Am I not tellin’ thee summat?
Against the knockin’ of sevenfold dawn,
An’ red-tipped candles from morn to morn
Have dipped an’ danced upon thy brawn
Till thou art worn —
Oh, I have cost thee summat.
Look in the mirror an’ see thy-sen,
— What, I am showin’ thee summat.
Wasted an’ wan tha sees thy-sen.
An’ thy hand that holds the mirror shakes
Till tha drops the glass and tha shudders when
Thy luck breaks.
Sure, tha’rt afraid o’ summat.
Frail thou art, my saucy man,
— Listen, I’m tellin’ thee summat.
Tottering and tired thou art, my man,
Tha came to say good-bye to me.
An’ tha’s done it so well, that now I can
Part wn’ thee.
— Master, I’m givin’ thee summat.
THE SCHOOLMASTER
I
A SNOWY DAY IN SCHOOL
All the slow school hours, round the irregular hum of
the class,
Have pressed immeasurable spaces of hoarse silence
Muffling my mind, as snow muffles the sounds that pass
Down the soiled street. We have pattered the lessons
ceaselessly —
But the faces of the boys, in the brooding, yellow light
Have shone for me like a crowded constellation of stars.
Like full-blown flowers dimly shaking at the night,
Like floating froth on an ebbing shore in the moon.
Out of each star, dark, strange beams that disquiet:
In the open depths of each flower, dark restless drops:
Twin bubbles, shadow-full of mystery and challenge in
the foam’s whispering riot:
— How can I answer the challenge of so many eyes!
The thick snow is crumpled on the roof, it plunges down
Awfully. Must I call back those hundred eyes? — A voice
Wakes from the hum, faltering about a noun —
My question! My God, I must break from this hoarse silence
That rustles beyond the stars to me. — There,
Ihave startled a hundred eyes, and I must look
Them an answer back. It is more than I can bear.
The snow descends as if the dull sky shook
In flakes of shadow down; and through the gap
Between the ruddy schools sweeps one black rook.
The rough snowball in the playground stands huge and still
With fair flakes settling down on it. — Beyond, the town
Is lost in the shadowed silence the skies distil.
And all things are possessed by silence, and they can brood
Wrapped up in the sky’s dim space of hoarse silence
Earnestly — and oh for me this class is a bitter rood.
II
THE BEST OF SCHOOL
The blinds are drawn because of the sun,
And the boys and the room in a colourless gloom
Of under- water flo
at: bright ripples run
Across the walls as the blinds are blown
To let the sunlight in; and I,
As I sit on the beach of the class alone.
Watch the boys in their summer blouses,
As they write, their round heads busily bowed:
And one after another rouses
And lifts his face and looks at me,
And my eyes meet his very quietly,
Then he turns again to his work, with glee.
With glee he turns, with a little glad
Ecstasy of work he turns from me.
An ecstasy surely sweet to be had.
And very sweet while the sunlight waves
In the fresh of the morning, it is to be
A teacher of these young boys, my slaves
Only as swallows are slaves to the eaves
They build upon, as mice are slaves
To the man who threshes and sows the sheaves.
Oh, sweet it is
To feel the lads’ looks light on me.
Then back in a swift, bright flutter to work,
As birds who are stealing turn and flee.
Touch after touch I feel on me
As their eyes glance at me for the grain
Of rigour they taste delightedly.
And all the class.
As tendrils reached out yearningly
Slowly rotate till they touch the tree
That they cleave unto, that they leap along
Up to their lives — so they to me.
So do they cleave and cling to me,
So I lead them up, so do they twine
Me up, caress and clothe with free
Fine foliage of lives this life of mine;
The lowest stem of this life of mine,
The old hard stem of my life
That bears aloft towards rarer skies
My top of life, that buds on high
Amid the high wind’s enterprise.
They all do clothe my ungrowing life
With a rich, a thrilled young clasp of life;
A clutch of attachment, like parenthood,
Mounts up to my heart, and I find it good.
And I lift my head upon the troubled tangled world, and though the pain
Of living my life were doubled, I still have this to comfort and sustain,
I have such swarming sense of lives at the base of me, such sense of lives
Clustering upon me, reaching up, as each after the other strives
To follow my life aloft to the fine wild air of life and the storm of thought,
And though I scarcely see the boys, or know that they are there, distraught
As I am with living my life in earnestness, still progressively and alone,
Though they cling, forgotten the most part, not companions, scarcely known
To me — yet still because of the sense of their closeness clinging densely to me.
And slowly fingering up my stem and following all tinily
The way that I have gone and now am leading, they are dear to me.
They keep me assored, and when my soul feels lonely.
All mistrustful of thrusting its shoots where only
I alone am living, then it keeps
Me comforted to feel the warmth that creeps
Up dimly from their striving; it heartens my strife:
And when my heart is chill with loneliness,
Then comforts it the creeping tenderness
Of all the strays of life that climb my life.
III
AFTERNOON IN SCHOOL
THE LAST LESSON
When will the bell ring, and end this weariness?
How long have they tugged the leash, and strained apart
My pack of unruly hounds: I cannot start
Them again on a quarry of knowledge they hate to hunt,
I can haul them and urge them no more.
No more can I endure to bear the brunt
Of the books that lie out on the desks: a full three score
Of several insults of blotted pages and scrawl
Of slovenly work that they have offered me.
I am sick, and tired more than any thrall
Upon the woodstacks working weariedly.
And shall I take
The last dear fuel and heap it on my soul
Till I rouse my will like a fire to consume
Their dross of indifference, and burn the scroll
Of their insults in punishment? — I will not!
I will not waste myself to embers for them,
Not all for them shall the fires of my life be hot,
For myself a heap of ashes of weariness, till sleep
Shall have raked the embers clear: I will keep
Some of my strength for myself, for if I should sell
It all for them, I should hate them —
— I will sit and wait for the bell.
AMORES
CONTENTS
TEASE
THE WILD COMMON
STUDY
DISCORD IN CHILDHOOD
VIRGIN YOUTH
MONOLOGUE OF A MOTHER
IN A BOAT
WEEK-NIGHT SERVICE
IRONY
DREAMS OLD AND NASCENT
OLD
DREAMS OLD AND NASCENT
NASCENT
A WINTER’S TALE
EPILOGUE
A BABY RUNNING BAREFOOT
DISCIPLINE
SCENT OF IRISES
THE PROPHET
LAST WORDS TO MIRIAM
MYSTERY
PATIENCE
BALLAD OF ANOTHER OPHELIA
RESTLESSNESS
A BABY ASLEEP AFTER PAIN
ANXIETY
THE PUNISHER
THE END
THE BRIDE
THE VIRGIN MOTHER
AT THE WINDOW
DRUNK
SORROW
DOLOR OF AUTUMN
THE INHERITANCE
SILENCE
LISTENING
BROODING GRIEF
LOTUS HURT BY THE COLD
MALADE
LIAISON
TROTH WITH THE DEAD
DISSOLUTE
SUBMERGENCE
THE ENKINDLED SPRING
REPROACH
THE HANDS OF THE BETROTHED
EXCURSION
PERFIDY
A SPIRITUAL WOMAN
MATING
A LOVE SONG
BROTHER AND SISTER
AFTER MANY DAYS
BLUE
SNAP-DRAGON
A PASSING BELL
IN TROUBLE AND SHAME
ELEGY
GREY EVENING
FIRELIGHT AND NIGHTFALL
THE MYSTIC BLUE
Lawrence, 1906, whilst working as a school teacher
TEASE
I WILL give you all my keys,
You shall be my châtelaine,
You shall enter as you please,
As you please shall go again.
When I hear you jingling through
All the chambers of my soul,
How I sit and laugh at you
In your vain housekeeping rôle.
Jealous of the smallest cover,
Angry at the simplest door;
Well, you anxious, inquisitive lover,
Are you pleased with what’s in store?
You have fingered all my treasures,
Have you not, most curiously,
Handled all my tools and measures
And masculine machinery?
Over every single beauty
You have had your little rapture;
You have slain, as was your duty,
Every sin-mouse you could capture.
Still you are not satisfied,
Still you tremble faint reproach;
Challenge me I keep aside
Secrets that you may not broach.
Maybe yes, and maybe no,
Mayb
e there are secret places,
Altars barbarous below,
Elsewhere halls of high disgraces.
Maybe yes, and maybe no,
You may have it as you please,
Since I choose to keep you so,
Suppliant on your curious knees.
THE WILD COMMON
THE quick sparks on the gorse bushes are leaping,
Little jets of sunlight-texture imitating flame;
Above them, exultant, the pee-wits are sweeping:
They are lords of the desolate wastes of sadness
their screamings proclaim.
Rabbits, handfuls of brown earth, lie Low-rounded on the mournful grass they have bitten down to the quick. Are they asleep? — Are they alive? — Now see, when I Move my arms the hill bursts and heaves under their spurting kick.
The common flaunts bravely; but below, from the rushes Crowds of glittering king-cups surge to challenge the blossoming bushes; There the lazy streamlet pushes Its curious course mildly; here it wakes again, leaps, laughs, and gushes.
Into a deep pond, an old sheep-dip, Dark, overgrown with willows, cool, with the brook ebbing through so slow, Naked on the steep, soft lip Of the bank I stand watching my own white shadow quivering to and fro.
What if the gorse flowers shrivelled and kissing were lost? Without the pulsing waters, where were the marigolds and the songs of the brook? If my veins and my breasts with love embossed Withered, my insolent soul would be gone like flowers that the hot wind took.
Complete Works of D.H. Lawrence Page 821