The Ship of Death (David Herbert Lawrence Poem)
I Now it is autumn and the falling fruit and the long journey towards oblivion. The apples falling like great ...
I Now it is autumn and the falling fruit and the long journey towards oblivion. The apples falling like great ...
BOOK I Deep in the shady sadness of a vale Far sunken from the healthy breath of morn, Far from ...
Jane looks down at her organdy skirt As if it somehow were the thing disgraced, For being there, on the ...
O do not use me After my sins! look not on my dessert, But on your glory! Then you will ...
O Sacred Providence, who from end to end Strongly and sweetly movest! shall I write, And not of thee, through ...
Patience, hard thing! the hard thing but to pray, But bid for, Patience is! Patience who asks Wants war, wants ...
I sat all morning in the college sick bay Counting bells knelling classes to a close. At two o'clock our ...
I In days when men had joy of war, A God of Battles sped each mortal jar; The peoples pledged ...
seven lacqueur ducks on a silver pond their rippling held in a moveless ...
What art thou, SPLEEN, which ev'ry thing dost ape? Thou Proteus to abus'd Mankind, Who never yet thy real Cause ...
You were never told, Mother, how old Illyawas drunk That last holiday, for five days and nights He stumbled through ...
I watcher her face to see which way She took the awful news -- Whether she died before she heard ...
He never spoke a word to me, And yet He called my name; He never gave a sign to me, ...
I watch the man bend over his patch, a fat gunny sack at his feet. He combs the earth with ...
A ship that bears much sail, and little ballast, is easily overset; and that man, whose head hath great abilities, ...
Cruising these residential Sunday streets in dry August sunlight: what offends us is the sanities: the houses in pedantic rows, ...
Far back when I went zig-zagging through tamarack pastures you were my genius, you my cast-iron Viking, my helmed lion-heart ...
Here at the Super Duper, in a glass tank Supplied by a rill of cold fresh water Running down a ...
Under yonder beech-tree single on the green-sward, Couched with her arms behind her golden head, Knees and tresses folded to ...
Unspeakable. The word that fills up the poem, that the head tries to excise. At 6 a.m., the wet lion. ...
Now Morn, her rosy steps in the eastern clime Advancing, sowed the earth with orient pearl, When Adam waked, so ...
Undoubtedly he will relent, and turn From his displeasure; in whose look serene, When angry most he seemed and most ...
Mean while the heinous and despiteful act Of Satan, done in Paradise; and how He, in the serpent, had perverted ...
As one who in his journey bates at noon, Though bent on speed; so here the Arch-Angel paused Betwixt the ...
Why did you bruise me with your rough places If you did not want me to tell you about them? ...
There must be a wound! No one can be this hurt and not bleed. How could she injure me so? ...
The hoar-frost crumbles in the sun, The crisping steam of a train Melts in the air, while two black birds ...
The doctor fingers my bruise. "Magnificent," he says, "black at the edges and purple cored." Seated, he spies for clues, ...
How the Wings Were Made From many morning-glories That in an hour will fade, From many ...
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