Complete Works of D.H. Lawrence (Illustrated)

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Complete Works of D.H. Lawrence (Illustrated) Page 820

by D. H. Lawrence


  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,

 

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