Why does the thin grey strand
Floating up from the forgotten
Cigarette between my fingers,
Why does it trouble me?
Ah, you will understand;
When I carried my mother downstairs,
A few times only, at the beginning
Of her soft-foot malady,
I should find, for a reprimand
To my gaiety, a few long grey hairs
On the breast of my coat; and one by one
I let them float up the dark chimney.
(David Herbert Lawrence)
More Poetry from David Herbert Lawrence:
- Bei Hennef (David Herbert Lawrence Poems)
- Drunk (David Herbert Lawrence Poem)
- The Song of a Man Who has Come Through (David Herbert Lawrence Poem)
- If You are a Man (David Herbert Lawrence Poem)
- Patience (David Herbert Lawrence Poem)
- Nothing To Save (David Herbert Lawrence Poem)