D. H. LAWRENCE

ERINNYES

There has been so much noise, Bleeding and shouting and dying, Clamour of death.

There are so many dead, Many have died unconsenting, Their ghosts are angry, unappeased.

So many ghosts among us, Invisible, yet strong, Between me and thee, so many ghosts of the slain.

They come back, over the white sea, in the mist, Invisible, trooping home, the unassuaged ghosts Endlessly returning on the uneasy sea.

They set foot on this land to which they have the right, They return relentlessly, in the silence one knows their tread, Multitudinous, endless, the ghosts coming home again.

They watch us, they press on us, They press their claim upon us, They are angry with us.

What do they want? We are driven mad, Madly we rush hither and thither: Shouting, “Revenge, Revenge,” Crying, “Pour out the blood of the foe,” Seeking to appease with blood the insistent ghosts.

Out of blood rise up new ghosts, Grey, stern, angry, unsatisfied, The more we slay and are slain, the more we raise up new ghosts against us.

Till we are mad with terror, seeing the slain Victorious, grey, grisly ghosts in our streets, Grey, unappeased ghosts seated in the music-halls. The dead triumphant, and the quick cast down, The dead, unassuaged and angry, silencing us, Making us pale and bloodless, without resistance.

What do they want, the ghosts, what is it They demand as they stand in menace over against us? How shall we now appease whom we have raised up?

Since from blood poured out rise only ghosts again, What shall we do, what shall we give to them? What do they want, forever there on our threshold?

Must we open the doors, and admit them, receive them home, And in the silence, reverently, welcome them, And give them place and honour and service meet?

For one year's space, attend on our angry dead, Soothe them with service and honour, and silence meet, Strengthen, prepare them for the journey hence, Then lead them to the gates of the unknown, And bid farewell, oh stately travellers, And wait till they are lost upon our sight.

Then we shall turn us home again to life Knowing our dead are fitly housed in death, Not roaming here disconsolate, angrily.

And we shall have new peace in this our life, New joy to give more life, new bliss to live, Sure of our dead in the proud halls of death.

PERFIDY

Hollow rang the house when I knocked at the door, And I lingered on the threshold with my hand Upraised to knock and knock once more: Listening for the sound of her feet across the floor, Hollow re-echoed my heart.

The low-hung lamps stretched down the road With shadows drifting underneath, With a music of soft, melodious feet Quickening my hope as I hastened to meet The low-hung light of her eyes.

The golden lamps down the street went out, The last car trailed the night behind, And I in the darkness wandered about With a flutter of hope and of dark-shut doubt In the dying lamp of my love.

Two brown ponies trotting slowly Stopped at the dim-lit trough to drink. The dark van drummed down the distance slowly, And city stars so high and holy Drew nearer to look in the streets.

A hasting car swept shameful past. I saw her hid in the shadow, I saw her step to the curb, and fast Run to the silent door, where last I had stood with my hand uplifted. She clung to the door in her haste to enter, Entered, and quickly cast It shut behind her, leaving the street aghast.

AT THE WINDOW

The pine trees bend to listen to the autumn wind as it mutters Something which sets the black poplars ashake with hysterical laughter; While slowly the house of day is closing its eastern shutters.

Further down the valley the clustered tombstones recede Winding about their dimness the mists' grey cerements, after The street-lamps in the twilight have suddenly started to bleed.

The leaves fly over the window and whisper a word as they pass To the face that leans from the darkness, intent, with two eyes of darkness That watch forever earnestly from behind the window glass.

IN TROUBLE AND SHAME

I look at the swaling sunset And wish I could go also Through the red doors beyond the black-purple bar.

I wish that I could go Through the red doors where I could put off My shame like shoes in the porch My pain like garments, And leave my flesh discarded lying Like luggage of some departed traveller Gone one knows not where.

Then I would turn round And seeing my cast-off body lying like lumber, I would laugh with joy.

BROODING GRIEF

A yellow leaf from the darkness Hops like a frog before me— —Why should I start and stand still?

I was watching the woman that bore me Stretched in the brindled darkness Of the sick-room, rigid with will To die— And the quick leaf tore me Back to this rainy swill Of leaves and lamps and traffic mingled before me.