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- SOFTLY, in the dusk, a woman is singing to me;
- Taking me back down the vista of years, till I see
- A child sitting under the piano, in the boom of the tingling strings
- And pressing the small, poised feet of a mother who smiles as she sings.
- In spite of myself, the insidious mastry of song
- Betrays me back, till the heart of me weeps to belong
- To the old Sunday evenings at home, with winter outside
- And hymns in the cozy parlor, the tinkling piano our guide.
- So now it is vain for the singer to burst into clamor
- With the great black piano apassionato. The glamor
- Of childhood days is upon me, my manhood is cast
- Down in the flood of remembrance, I weep like a child for the past.
- D.H. Lawrence
- ALONG the avenue of cypresses,
- All in their scarlet cloaks and surplices
- Of linen, go the chanting 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 womenfolk, 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 mother kneels
- With pale shut face, nor either hears nor feels
- The coming of the chanting choristers
- Between the avenue of cypresses,
- The silence of the many villagers,
- The candle-flames beside the surplices.
- D.H. Lawrence
- WHEN she rises in the morning
- I linger to watch her;
- She spreads the bath-cloth underneath the window
- And the sunbeams catch her
- Glistening white on the shoulders,
- While down her sides the mellow
- Golden shadow glows as
- She stoops to the sponge, and her swung breasts
- Sway like full-blown
- Gloire de Dijon roses.
- She drips herself with water, and her shoulders
- Glisten as silver; they crumble up
- Like wet and falling roses, and I listen
- For the sluicing of their rain-dishevelled petals.
- In the window full of sunlight
- Concentrates her golden shadow
- Fold on fold, until it glows as
- Mellow as the glory roses.
- D. H. Lawrence
Poets' Corner .
H O M E .