BAY . . A BOOK OF . . POEMS . . BY D: H: LAWRENCE

To Cynthia Asquith

CONTENTS

GUARDS

Where the trees rise like cliffs

THE LITTLE TOWN AT EVENING

The chime of the bells

LAST HOURS

The cool of an oak's unchequered shade

TOWN

London

AFTER THE OPERA

Down the stone stairs

GOING BACK

The night turns slowly round

ON THE MARCH

We are out on the open road

BOMBARDMENT

The town has opened to the sun

WINTER-LULL

Because of the silent snow

THE ATTACK

When we came out of the wood

OBSEQUIAL ODE

Surely you've trodden straight

SHADES

Shall I tell you, then, how it is?--

BREAD UPON THE WATERS

So you are lost to me

RUINATION

The sun is bleeding its fires upon the mist

RONDEAU

The hours have tumbled their leaden sands

TOMMIES IN THE TRAIN

The sun shines

WAR-BABY

The child like mustard-seed

NOSTALGIA

The waning moon looks upward

COLOPHON

GUARDS!

A Review in Hyde Park 1913.

The Crowd Watches.

WHERE the trees rise like cliffs, proud and

blue-tinted in the distance,

Between the cliffs of the trees, on the grey-

green park

Rests a still line of soldiers, red motionless range of

guards

Smouldering with darkened busbies beneath the bay-

onets' slant rain.

Colossal in nearness a blue police sits still on his horse

Guarding the path; his hand relaxed at his thigh,

And skyward his face is immobile, eyelids aslant

In tedium, and mouth relaxed as if smiling--ineffable

tedium!

So! So! Gaily a general canters across the space,

With white plumes blinking under the evening grey

sky.

And suddenly, as if the ground moved

The red range heaves in slow, magnetic reply.

EVOLUTIONS OF SOLDIERS

The red range heaves and compulsory sways, ah see!

in the flush of a march

Softly-impulsive advancing as water towards a weir

from the arch

Of shadow emerging as blood emerges from inward

shades of our night

Encroaching towards a crisis, a meeting, a spasm and

throb of delight.

The wave of soldiers, the coming wave, the throbbing

red breast of approach

Upon us; dark eyes as here beneath the busbies glit-

tering, dark threats that broach

Our beached vessel; darkened rencontre inhuman, and

closed warm lips, and dark

Mouth-hair of soldiers passing above us, over the wreck

of our bark.

And so, it is ebb-time, they turn, the eyes beneath the

busbies are gone.

But the blood has suspended its timbre, the heart from

out of oblivion

Knows but the retreat of the burning shoulders, the

red-swift waves of the sweet

Fire horizontal declining and ebbing, the twilit ebb of

retreat.

THE LITTLE TOWN AT EVENING

THE chime of the bells, and the church clock

striking eight

Solemnly and distinctly cries down the babel

of children still playing in the hay.

The church draws nearer upon us, gentle and great

In shadow, covering us up with her grey.

Like drowsy children the houses fall asleep

Under the fleece of shadow, as in between

Tall and dark the church moves, anxious to keep

Their sleeping, cover them soft unseen.

Hardly a murmur comes from the sleeping brood,

I wish the church had covered me up with the rest

In the home-place. Why is it she should exclude

Me so distinctly from sleeping with those I love best?

LAST HOURS

THE cool of an oak's unchequered shade

Falls on me as I lie in deep grass

Which rushes upward, blade beyond blade,

While higher the darting grass-flowers pass

Piercing the blue with their crocketed spires

And waving flags, and the ragged fires

Of the sorrel's cresset--a green, brave town

Vegetable, new in renown.

Over the tree's edge, as over a mountain

Surges the white of the moon,

A cloud comes up like the surge of a fountain,

Pressing round and low at first, but soon

Heaving and piling a round white dome.

How lovely it is to be at home

Like an insect in the grass

Letting life pass.

There's a scent of clover crept through my hair

From the full resource of some purple dome

Where that lumbering bee, who can hardly bear

His burden above me, never has clomb.

But not even the scent of insouciant flowers

Makes pause the hours.

Down the valley roars a townward train.

I hear it through the grass

Dragging the links of my shortening chain

Southwards, alas!

TOWN

LONDON

Used to wear her lights splendidly,

Flinging her shawl-fringe over the River,

Tassels in abandon.

And up in the sky

A two-eyed clock, like an owl

Solemnly used to approve, chime, chiming,

Approval, goggle-eyed fowl.

There are no gleams on the River,

No goggling clock;

No sound from St. Stephen's;

No lamp-fringed frock.

Instead,

Darkness, and skin-wrapped

Fleet, hurrying limbs,

Soft-footed dead.

London

Original, wolf-wrapped

In pelts of wolves, all her luminous

Garments gone.

London, with hair

Like a forest darkness, like a marsh

Of rushes, ere the Romans

Broke in her lair.

It is well

That London, lair of sudden

Male and female darknesses

Has broken her spell.

AFTER THE OPERA

DOWN the stone stairs

Girls with their large eyes wide with tragedy

Lift looks of shocked and momentous emotion

up at me.

And I smile.

Ladies

Stepping like birds with their bright and pointed feet

Peer anxiously forth, as if for a boat to carry them out

of the wreckage,

And among the wreck of the theatre crowd

I stand and smile.

They take tragedy so becomingly.

Which pleases me.

But when I meet the weary eyes

The reddened aching eyes of the bar-man with thin

arms,

I am glad to go back to where I came from.

GOING BACK

THE NIGHT turns slowly round,

Swift trains go by in a rush of light;

Slow trains steal past.

This train beats anxiously, outward bound.

But I am not here.

I am away, beyond the scope of this turning;

There, where the pivot is, the axis

Of all this gear.

I, who sit in tears,

I, whose heart is torn with parting;

Who cannot bear to think back to the departure

platform;

My spirit hears

Voices of men

Sound of artillery, aeroplanes, presences,

And more than all, the dead-sure silence,

The pivot again.

There, at the axis

Pain, or love, or grief

Sleep on speed; in dead certainty;

Pure relief.

There, at the pivot

Time sleeps again.

No has-been, no here-after; only the perfected

Silence of men.

ON THE MARCH

WE are out on the open road.

Through the low west window a cold light

flows

On the floor where never my numb feet trode

Before; onward the strange road goes.

Soon the spaces of the western sky

With shutters of sombre cloud will close.

But we'll still be together, this road and I,

Together, wherever the long road goes.

The wind chases by us, and over the corn

Pale shadows flee from us as if from their foes.

Like a snake we thresh on the long, forlorn

Land, as onward the long road goes.

From the sky, the low, tired moon fades out;

Through the poplars the night-wind blows;

Pale, sleepy phantoms are tossed about

As the wind asks whither the wan road goes.

Away in the distance wakes a lamp.

Inscrutable small lights glitter in rows.

But they come no nearer, and still we tramp

Onward, wherever the strange road goes.

Beat after beat falls sombre and dull.

The wind is unchanging, not one of us knows

What will be in the final lull

When we find the place where this dead road goes.

For something must come, since we pass and pass

Along in the coiled, convulsive throes

Of this marching, along with the invisible grass

That goes wherever this old road goes.

Perhaps we shall come to oblivion.

Perhaps we shall march till our tired toes

Tread over the edge of the pit, and we're gone

Down the endless slope where the last road goes.

If so, let us forge ahead, straight on

If we're going to sleep the sleep with those

That fall forever, knowing none

Of this land whereon the wrong road goes.

BOMBARDMENT

THE TOWN has opened to the sun.

Like a flat red lily with a million petals

She unfolds, she comes undone.

A sharp sky brushes upon

The myriad glittering chimney-tips

As she gently exhales to the sun.

Hurrying creatures run

Down the labyrinth of the sinister flower.

What is it they shun?

A dark bird falls from the sun.

It curves in a rush to the heart of the vast

Flower: the day has begun.

WINTER-LULL

Because of the silent snow, we are all hushed

Into awe.

No sound of guns, nor overhead no rushed

Vibration to draw

Our attention out of the void wherein we are crushed.

A crow floats past on level wings

Noiselessly.

Uninterrupted silence swings

Invisibly, inaudibly

To and fro in our misgivings.

We do not look at each other, we hide

Our daunted eyes.

White earth, and ruins, ourselves, and nothing beside.

It all belies

Our existence; we wait, and are still denied.

We are folded together, men and the snowy ground

Into nullity.

There is silence, only the silence, never a sound

Nor a verity

To assist us; disastrously silence-bound!

THE ATTACK

WHEN we came out of the wood

Was a great light!

The night uprisen stood

In white.

I wondered, I looked around

It was so fair. The bright

Stubble upon the ground

Shone white

Like any field of snow;

Yet warm the chase

Of faint night-breaths did go

Across my face!

White-bodied and warm the night was,

Sweet-scented to hold in my throat.

White and alight the night was.

A pale stroke smote

The pulse through the whole bland being

Which was This and me;

A pulse that still went fleeing,

Yet did not flee.

After the terrible rage, the death,

This wonder stood glistening?

All shapes of wonder, with suspended breath,

Arrested listening

In ecstatic reverie.

The whole, white Night!--

With wonder, every black tree

Blossomed outright.

I saw the transfiguration

And the present Host.

Transubstantiation

Of the Luminous Ghost.

OBSEQUIAL ODE

SURELY you've trodden straight

To the very door!

Surely you took your fate

Faultlessly. Now it's too late

To say more.

It is evident you were right,

That man has a course to go

A voyage to sail beyond the charted seas.

You have passed from out of sight

And my questions blow

Back from the straight horizon that ends all one sees.

Now like a vessel in port

You unlade your riches unto death,

And glad are the eager dead to receive you there.

Let the dead sort

Your cargo out, breath from breath

Let them disencumber your bounty, let them all share.

I imagine dead hands are brighter,

Their fingers in sunset shine

With jewels of passion once broken through you as a

prism

Breaks light into jewels; and dead breasts whiter

For your wrath; and yes, I opine

They anoint their brows with your blood, as a perfect

chrism.

On your body, the beaten anvil,

Was hammered out

That moon-like sword the ascendant dead unsheathe

Against us; sword that no man will

Put to rout;

Sword that severs the question from us who breathe.

Surely you've trodden straight

To the very door.

You have surely achieved your fate;

And the perfect dead are elate

To have won once more.

Now to the dead you are giving

Your last allegiance.

But what of us who are living

And fearful yet of believing

In your pitiless legions.

SHADES

SHALL I tell you, then, how it is?--

There came a cloven gleam

Like a tongue of darkened flame

To flicker in me.

And so I seem

To have you still the same

In one world with me.

In the flicker of a flower,

In a worm that is blind, yet strives,

In a mouse that pauses to listen

Glimmers our

Shadow; yet it deprives

Them none of their glisten.

In every shaken morsel

I see our shadow tremble

As if it rippled from out of us hand in hand.

As if it were part and parcel,

One shadow, and we need not dissemble

Our darkness: do you understand?

For I have told you plainly how it is.

BREAD UPON THE WATERS.

SO you are lost to me!

Ah you, you ear of corn straight lying,

What food is this for the darkly flying

Fowls of the Afterwards!

White bread afloat on the waters,

Cast out by the hand that scatters

Food untowards,

Will you come back when the tide turns?

After many days? My heart yearns

To know.

Will you return after many days

To say your say as a traveller says,

More marvel than woe?

Drift then, for the sightless birds

And the fish in shadow-waved herds

To approach you.

Drift then, bread cast out;

Drift, lest I fall in doubt,

And reproach you.

For you are lost to me!

RUINATION

THE sun is bleeding its fires upon the mist

That huddles in grey heaps coiling and holding

back.

Like cliffs abutting in shadow a drear grey sea

Some street-ends thrust forward their stack.

On the misty waste-lands, away from the flushing grey

Of the morning the elms are loftily dimmed, and tall

As if moving in air towards us, tall angels

Of darkness advancing steadily over us all.

RONDEAU OF A CONSCIENTIOUS OBJECTOR.

THE hours have tumbled their leaden, mono-

tonous sands

And piled them up in a dull grey heap in the

West.

I carry my patience sullenly through the waste lands;

To-morrow will pour them all back, the dull hours I

detest.

I force my cart through the sodden filth that is pressed

Into ooze, and the sombre dirt spouts up at my hands

As I make my way in twilight now to rest.

The hours have tumbled their leaden, monotonous

sands.

A twisted thorn-tree still in the evening stands

Defending the memory of leaves and the happy round

nest.

But mud has flooded the homes of these weary lands

And piled them up in a dull grey heap in the West.

All day has the clank of iron on iron distressed

The nerve-bare place. Now a little silence expands

And a gasp of relief. But the soul is still compressed:

I carry my patience sullenly through the waste lands.

The hours have ceased to fall, and a star commands

Shadows to cover our stricken manhood, and blest

Sleep to make us forget: but he understands:

To-morrow will pour them all back, the dull hours

I detest.

TOMMIES IN THE TRAIN

THE SUN SHINES,

The coltsfoot flowers along the railway banks

Shine like flat coin which Jove in thanks

Strews each side the lines.

A steeple

In purple elms, daffodils

Sparkle beneath; luminous hills

Beyond--and no people.

England, Oh Danae

To this spring of cosmic gold

That falls on your lap of mould!

What then are we?

What are we

Clay-coloured, who roll in fatigue

As the train falls league by league

From our destiny?

A hand is over my face,

A cold hand. I peep between the fingers

To watch the world that lingers

Behind, yet keeps pace.

Always there, as I peep

Between the fingers that cover my face!

Which then is it that falls from its place

And rolls down the steep?

Is it the train

That falls like meteorite

Backward into space, to alight

Never again?

Or is it the illusory world

That falls from reality

As we look? Or are we

Like a thunderbolt hurled?

One or another

Is lost, since we fall apart

Endlessly, in one motion depart

From each other.

WAR-BABY

THE CHILD like mustard-seed

Rolls out of the husk of death

Into the woman's fertile, fathomless lap.

Look, it has taken root!

See how it flourisheth.

See how it rises with magical, rosy sap!

As for our faith, it was there

When we did not know, did not care;

It fell from our husk like a little, hasty seed.

Sing, it is all we need.

Sing, for the little weed

Will flourish its branches in heaven when we

slumber beneath.

NOSTALGIA

THE WANING MOON looks upward; this

grey night

Slopes round the heavens in one smooth curve

Of easy sailing; odd red wicks serve

To show where the ships at sea move out of sight.

The place is palpable me, for here I was born

Of this self-same darkness. Yet the shadowy house

below

Is out of bounds, and only the old ghosts know

I have come, I feel them whimper in welcome, and

mourn.

My father suddenly died in the harvesting corn

And the place is no longer ours. Watching, I hear

No sound from the strangers, the place is dark, and fear

Opens my eyes till the roots of my vision seems torn.

Can I go no nearer, never towards the door?

The ghosts and I we mourn together, and shrink

In the shadow of the cart-shed. Must we hover on

the brink

Forever, and never enter the homestead any more?

Is it irrevocable? Can I really not go

Through the open yard-way? Can I not go past the

sheds

And through to the mowie?--Only the dead in their

beds

Can know the fearful anguish that this is so.

I kiss the stones, I kiss the moss on the wall,

And wish I could pass impregnate into the place.

I wish I could take it all in a last embrace.

I wish with my breast I here could annihilate it all.

HERE ENDS BAY A BOOK OF POEMS BY

D. H. Lawrence The Cover and the Decorations

designed by Anne Estelle Rice The Typography

and Binding arranged by Cyril W. Beaumont

Printed by Hand on his Press at 75 Charing

Cross Road in the City of Westminster

Completed November the Twentieth

MDCCCCXIX

[Logo] SIMPLEX . MUNDITIIS . . . THE . BEAUMONT . PRESS

Pressman Charles Wright

Compositor C. W. Beaumont