Before the last-mown harebells are dead;
While that vetch-clump still burns red!
Before all the bats have dropped from the bough
To cool in the night; if she came to me now!
The horses are untackled, the chattering machine
Is still at last. If she would come
We could gather up the dry hay from
The hill-brow, and lie quite still, till the green
Sky ceased to quiver, and lost its active sheen.
I should like to drop
On the hay, with my head on her knee,
And lie dead still, while she
Breathed quiet above me; and the crop
Of stars grew silently.
I should like to lie still
As if I was dead; but feeling
Her hand go stealing
Over my face and my head, until
This ache was shed.
MICHAEL-ANGELO
God shook thy roundness in His finger’s cup,
He sunk His hands in firmness down thy sides,
And drew the circle of His grasp, O Man,
Along thy limbs delighted, thine, His bride’s.
And so thou wert God-shapen: His finger
Curved thy mouth for thee, and His strong shoulder
Planted thee upright: art not proud to see
In the curve of thine exquisite form the joy of the Moulder?
He took a handful of light and rolled a ball,
Compressed it till its beam grew wondrous dark,
Then gave thee thy dark eyes, O Man, that all
He made had doorway to thee through that spark.
God, lonely, put down His mouth in a kiss of creation.
He kissed thee, O Man, in a passion of love, and left
The vivid life of His love in thy mouth and thy nostrils;
Keep then the kiss from the adultress’ theft.
DIALECT POEMS
VIOLETS
Sister, tha knows while we was on the planks
Aside o’ th’ grave, while th’ coffin wor lyin’ yet
On th’ yaller clay, an’ th’ white flowers top of it
Tryin’ to keep off ‘n him a bit o’ th’ wet,
An’ parson makin’ haste, an’ a’ the black
Huddlin’ close together a cause o’ th’ rain,
Did t’ ‘appen ter notice a bit of a lass away back
By a head-stun, sobbin’ an’ sobbin’ again?
— How should I be lookin’ round
An’ me standin’ on the plank
Beside the open ground,
Where our Ted ‘ud soon be sank?
Yi, an’ ‘im that young,
Snapped sudden out of all
His wickedness, among
Pals worse n’r ony name as you could call.
Let be that; there’s some o’ th’ bad as we
Like better nor all your good, an’ ‘e was one.
— An’ cos I liked him best, yi, bett’r nor thee,
I canna bide to think where he is gone.
Ah know tha liked ‘im bett’r nor me. But let
Me tell thee about this lass. When you had gone
Ah stopped behind on t’ pad i’ th’ drippin wet
An’ watched what ‘er ‘ad on.
Tha should ha’ seed her slive up when we’d gone,
Tha should ha’ seed her kneel an’ look in
At th’ sloppy wet grave — an’ ‘er little neck shone
That white, an’ ‘er shook that much, I’d like to begin
Scraightin’ my-sen as well. ‘En undid her black
Jacket at th’ bosom, an’ took from out of it
Over a double ‘andful of violets, all in a pack
Ravelled blue and white — warm, for a bit
O’ th’ smell come waftin’ to me. ‘Er put ‘er face
Right intil ‘em and scraighted out again,
Then after a bit ‘er dropped ‘em down that place,
An’ I come away, because o’ the teemin’ rain.
WHETHER OR NOT
I
Dunna thee tell me its his’n, mother,
Dunna thee, dunna thee.
— Oh ay! he’ll be comin’ to tell thee his-sen
Wench, wunna he?
Tha doesna mean to say to me, mother,
He’s gone wi that —
— My gel, owt’U do for a man i’ the dark,
Tha’s got it flat.
But ‘er’s old, mother, ‘er’s twenty year
Older nor him —
— Ay, an’ yaller as a crowflower, an’ yet i’ the dark
Er’d do for Tim.
Tha niver believes it, mother, does ter?
It’s somebody’s lies.
— Ax him thy-sen wench — a widder’s lodger;
It’s no surprise.
II
A widow of forty-five
With a bitter, swarthy skin,
To ha’ ‘ticed a lad o’ twenty-five
An’ ‘im to have been took in!
A widow of forty-five
As has sludged like a horse all her life,
Till ‘er’s tough as whit-leather, to slive
Atween a lad an’ ‘is wife!
A widow of forty-five,
A tough old otchel wi’ long
Witch teeth, an’ ‘er black hawk-eyes as I’ve
Mistrusted all along!
An’ me as ‘as kep my-sen
Shut like a daisy bud,
Clean an’ new an’ nice, so’s when
He wed he’d ha’e summat good!
An’ ‘im as nice an’ fresh
As any man i’ the force,
To ha’e gone an’ given his white young flesh
To a woman that coarse!
III
You’re stout to brave this snow, Miss Stainwright,
Are you makin’ Brinsley way?
— I’m off up th’ line to Underwood
Wi’ a dress as is wanted to-day.
Oh are you goin’ to Underwood?
‘Appen then you’ve ‘eered?
— What’s that as ‘appen I’ve ‘eered-on, Missis,
Speak up, you nedna be feared.
Why, your young man an’ Widow Naylor,
Her as he lodges wi’,
They say he’s got her wi’ childt; but there.
It’s nothing to do wi’ me.
Though if it’s true they’ll turn him out
O’ th’ p’lice force, without fail;
An’ if it’s not true, I’d back my life
They’ll listen to her tale.
Well, I’m believin’ no tale, Missis,
I’m seein’ for my-sen;
An’ when I know for sure, Missis,
I’ll talk then.
IV
Nay robin red-breast, tha nedna
Sit noddin’ thy head at me;
My breast’s as red as thine, I reckon,
Flayed red, if tha could but see.
Nay, you blessed pee-whips,
You nedna screet at me!
I’m screetin’ my-sen, but are-na goin’
To let iv’rybody see.
Tha art smock-ravelled, bunny,
Larropin’ neck an’ crop
r th’ snow: but I’s warrant thee, bunny,
Fm further ower th’ top.
V
Now sithee theer at th’ railroad crossin’
Warmin’ his-sen at the stool o’ fire
Under the tank as fills the ingines.
If there isn’t my dearly-beloved liar!
My constable wi’ ‘is buttoned breast
As stout as the truth, my sirs! — An’ ‘is face
As bold as a robin! It’s much he cares
For this nice old shame and disgrace.
Oh but he drops his flag when ‘e sees me,
Yes, an’ ‘is face goes white ... oh yes
Tha can stare at me wi�
� thy fierce blue eyes,
But tha doesna stare me out, I guess!
VI
Whativer brings thee out so far
In a’ this depth o’ snow?
— I’m takin’ ‘ome a weddin’ dress
If tha maun know.
Why, is there a weddin’ at Underwood,
As tha ne’d trudge up here?
— It’s Widow Naylor’s weddin’-dress,
An’ ‘er’s wantin it, I hear.
‘^r doesna want no weddin-dress ...
What — but what dost mean?
— Doesn’t ter know what I mean, Tim? — Yi,
Tha must’ a’ been hard to wean!
Tha’rt a good-un at suckin-in yet, Timmy;
But tell me, isn’t it true
As ‘er’ll be wantin’ my weddin’ dress
In a week or two?
Tha’s no occasions ter ha’e me on
Lizzie — what’s done is done!
— Done, I should think so — Done! But might
I ask when tha begun?
It’s thee as ‘as done it as much as me,
Lizzie, I tell thee that.
— “ Me gotten a childt to thy landlady — ! “
Tha’s gotten thy answer pat,
As tha allers hast — but let me tell thee
Hasna ter sent me whoam, when I
Was a’most burstin’ mad o’ my-sen
An’ walkin’ in agony;
After thy kisses, Lizzie, after
Tha’s lain right up to me Lizzie, an’ melted
Into me, melted into me, Lizzie,
Till I was verily swelted.
An’ if my landlady seed me like it.
An’ if ‘er clawkin’, tiger’s eyes
Went through me just as the light went out
Is it any cause for surprise?
No cause for surprise at all, my lad,
After lickin’ and snuffin’ at me, tha could
Turn thy mouth on a woman like her —
Did ter find her good?
Ay, I did, but afterwards
I should like to ha’ killed her!
— Afterwards! — an’ after how long
Wor it tha’d liked to ‘a killed her?
Say no more, Liz, dunna thee,
I might lose my-sen.
— I’ll only say good-bye to thee, Timothy,
An’ gi’e her thee back again,
I’ll ta’e thy word ‘ Good-bye,’ Liz,
But I shonna marry her,
I shonna for nobody. — It is
Very nice on you, Sir.
The childt maun ta’e its luck, it maun,
An’ she maun ta’e her luck,
For I tell ye I shonna marry her —
What her’s got, her took.
That’s spoken like a man, Timmy,
That’s spoken like a man . . .
“He up an’ fired off his pistol
An’ then away he ran.”
I damn well shanna marry ‘er,
So chew at it no more,
Or I’ll chuck the flamin’ lot of you —
— You nedn’t have swore.
VII
That’s his collar round the candle-stick
An’ that’s the dark blue tie I bought ‘im,
An’ these is the woman’s kids he’s so fond on,
An’ ‘ere comes the cat that caught ‘im.
I dunno where his eyes was — a gret
Round-shouldered hag! My sirs, to think
Of him stoopin’ to her! You’d wonder he could
I expect you know who I am, Mrs Nay lor!
— Whoyerare? — yis, you’re Lizzie Stainwright.
‘An ‘appen you might guess what I’ve come for?
— ‘Appen I mightn’t, appen I might.
You knowed as I was courtin’ Tim Merfin.
— Yis, I knowed ‘e wor courtin’ thee.
An’ yet you’ve been carryin on wi’ him.
— Ay, an’ ‘im wi’ me.
Well, now you’ve got to pay for it,
— An’ if I han, what’s that to thee?
For ‘e isn’t goin’ to marry you.
— Is it a toss-up ‘twixt thee an’ me.-^
It’s no toss-up ‘twixt thee an’ me.
— Then what art colleyfoglin’ for?
I’m not havin’ your orts an’ slarts.
— Which on us said you wor?
I want you to know ‘e’s non marryin you.
— Tha wants ‘im thy-sen too bad.
Though I’ll see as ‘e pays you, an’ comes to the scratch.
— Tha’rt for doin’ a lot wi’ th’ lad.
VIII
To think I should ha’e to haffle an’ caffle
Wi’ a woman, an’ pay ‘er a price
For lettin’ me marry the lad as I thought
To marry wi’ cabs an’ rice.
But we’ll go unbeknown to the registrar,
An’ give ‘er what money there is,
For I won’t be beholden to such as her
For anythink of his.
IX
Take off thy duty stripes, Tim,
An’ come wi’ me in here,
Ta’e off thy p’lice-man’s helmet
An’ look me clear.
I wish tha hadna done it, Tim,
I do, an’ that I do!
For whenever I look thee i’ th’ face, I s’ll see
Her face too.
I wish tha could wesh ‘er off’n thee.
For I used to think that thy
Face was the finest thing that iver
Met my eye. ...
X
Twenty pound o’ thy own tha hast, and fifty pound ha’e I,
Thine shall go to pay the woman, an’ wi’ my bit we’ll buy
All as we shall want for furniture when tha leaves this place,
An’ we’ll be married at th’ registrar — now lift thy face.
Lift thy face an’ look at me, man, up an’ look at me:
Sorry I am for this business, an’ sorry if I ha’e driven thee
To such a thing: but it’s a poor tale, that I’m bound to say,
Before I can ta’e thee IVe got a widow of forty-five to pay.
Dunnat thee think but what I love thee — I love thee well,
But ‘deed an’ I wish as this tale o’ thine wor niver my tale to tell;
Deed an’ I wish as I could stood at the altar wi’ thee an’ been proud o’ thee,
That I could ha’ been first woman to thee, as thou’rt first man to me.
But we maun ma’e the best on’t — I’ll rear thy childt if ‘er’ll yield it to me.
An’ then wi’ that twenty pound we gi’e ‘er I s’d think ‘er wunna be
So very much worser off than ‘er wor before — An’ now look up
An’ answer me — for I’ve said my say, an’ there’s no more sorrow to sup.
Yi, tha’rt a man, tha’rt a fine big man, but niver a baby had eyes
As sulky an’ ormin’ as thine. Hast owt to say otherwise
From what I’ve arranged wi’ thee? Eh man, what a stubborn jackass thou art.
Kiss me then — there! — ne’er mind if I scraight — I wor fond o’ thee, Sweetheart.
A COLLIER’S WIFE
Somebody’s knocking at the door
Mother, come down and see.
— I’s think it’s nobbut a beggar,
Say, I’m busy.
It’s not a beggar, mother, — hark
How hard he knocks . . .
— Eh, tha’rt a mard-’arsed kid,
‘E’ll gi’e thee socks!
Shout an’ ax what ‘e wants,
I canna come down.
— ‘E says ‘‘ Is it Arthur HolHday’s? “
Say ‘‘ Yes,” tha clown.
‘E says, “ Tell your mother as ‘er mester’s
Got hurt i’ th’ pit.”
Wh
at — oh my sirs, ‘e never says that,
That’s niver it.
Come out o’ the way an’ let me see,
Eh, there’s no peace I
An’ stop thy scraightin’, childt,
Do shut thy face.
“Your mester’s ‘ad an accident,
Complete Works of D.H. Lawrence (Illustrated) Page 820
