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Martyr A La Mode Post by :IPflyer Category :Poems Author :D. H. Lawrence Date :December 2010 Read :3394

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Martyr A La Mode

AH God, life, law, so many names you keep,
You great, you patient Effort, and you Sleep
That does inform this various dream of living,
You sleep stretched out for ever, ever giving
Us out as dreams, you august Sleep
Coursed round by rhythmic movement of all

The constellations, your great heart, the sun
Fierily pulsing, unable to refrain;
Since you, vast, outstretched, wordless Sleep
Permit of no beyond, ah you, whose dreams
We are, and body of sleep, let it never be said
I quailed at my appointed function, turned poltroon

For when at night, from out the full surcharge
Of a day's experience, sleep does slowly draw
The harvest, the spent action to itself;
Leaves me unburdened to begin again;
At night, I say, when I am gone in sleep,
Does my slow heart rebel, do my dead hands
Complain of what the day has had them do?

Never let it be said I was poltroon
At this my task of living, this my dream,
This me which rises from the dark of sleep
In white flesh robed to drape another dream,
As lightning comes all white and trembling
From out the cloud of sleep, looks round about
One moment, sees, and swift its dream is over,
In one rich drip it sinks to another sleep,
And sleep thereby is one more dream enrichened.

If so the Vast, the God, the Sleep that still grows
Have said that I, this mote in the body of sleep
Must in my transiency pass all through pain,
Must be a dream of grief, must like a crude
Dull meteorite flash only into light
When tearing through the anguish of this life,
Still in full flight extinct, shall I then turn
Poltroon, and beg the silent, outspread God
To alter my one speck of doom, when round me
The whole great conflagration of all life,
Lapped like a body close upon a sleep,
Hiding and covering in the eternal Sleep
Within the immense and toilsome life-time,
With ache of dreams that body forth the Sleep?

Shall I, less than the least red grain of flesh
Within my body, cry out to the dreaming soul
That slowly labours in a vast travail,
To halt the heart, divert the streaming flow
That carries moons along, and spare the stress
That crushes me to an unseen atom of fire?

When pain and all
And grief are but the same last wonder, Sleep
Rising to dream in me a small keen dream
Of sudden anguish, sudden over and spent--


(The end)
D. H. Lawrence's poem: Martyr A La Mode

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Don Juan Don Juan

Don Juan
IT is Isis the mysteryMust be in love with me.Here this round ball of earthWhere all the mountains sitSolemn in groups,And the bright rivers flitRound them for girth.Here the trees and troopsDarken the shining grass,And many people passPlundered from heaven,Many bright people pass,Plunder from heaven.What of the mistressesWhat the beloved seven?--They were but witnesses,I was just driven.Where is there peace for me?Isis the mysteryMust be in love with me.(The end)D. H. Lawrence's poem: Don Juan

Nonentity Nonentity

THE stars that open and shutFall on my shallow breastLike stars on a pool.The soft wind, blowing coolLaps little crest after crestOf ripples across my breast.And dark grass under my feetSeems to dabble in meLike grass in a brook.Oh, and it is sweetTo be all these things, not to beAny more myself.For look,I am weary of myself!(The end)D. H. Lawrence's poem: Nonentity