Love Poems
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| D.H.
Lawrence - Discipline |
IT is stormy, and raindrops cling like silver bees
to the pane,
The thin sycamores in the playground are swinging
with flattened leaves;
The heads of the boys move dimly through a yellow
gloom that stains
The class; over them all the dark net of my discipline
weaves.
It is no good, dear, gentleness and forbearance,
I endured too long:
I have pushed my hands in the dark soil, under the
flower of my soul
And the gentle leaves, and have felt where the roots
are strong
Fixed in the darkness, grappling for the deep soil’s
little control.
And there is the dark, my darling, where the roots
are entangled and fight
Each one for its hold on the oblivious darkness,
I know that there
In the night where we first have being, before we
rise on the light,
We are not brothers, my darling, we fight and we
do not spare.
And in the original dark the roots cannot keep,
cannot know
Any communion whatever, but they bind themselves
on to the dark,
And drawing the darkness together, crush from it
a twilight, a slow
Burning that breaks at last into leaves and a flower’s
bright spark.
I came to the boys with love, my dear, but they
turned on me;
I came with gentleness, with my heart ’twixt
my hands like a bowl,
Like a loving-cup, like a grail, but they spilt
it triumphantly
And tried to break the vessel, and to violate my
soul.
But what have I to do with the boys, deep down in
my soul, my love?
I throw from out of the darkness my self like a
flower into sight,
Like a flower from out of the night-time, I lift
my face, and those
Who will may warm their hands at me, comfort this
night.
But whosoever would pluck apart my flowering shall
burn their hands,
So flowers are tender folk, and roots can only hide,
Yet my flowerings of love are a fire, and the scarlet
brands
Of my love are roses to look at, but flames to chide.
But comfort me, my love, now the fires are low,
Now I am broken to earth like a winter destroyed,
and all
Myself but a knowledge of roots, of roots in the
dark that throw
A net on the undersoil, which lies passive beneath
their thrall.
But comfort me, for henceforth my love is yours
alone,
To you alone will I offer the bowl, to you will
I give
My essence only, but love me, and I will atone
To you for my general loving, atone as long as I
live.
D. H. Lawrence
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