Drunk (David Herbert Lawrence Poem)
Too far away, oh love, I know, To save me from this haunted road, Whose lofty roses break and blow ...
Too far away, oh love, I know, To save me from this haunted road, Whose lofty roses break and blow ...
If you are a man, and believe in the destiny of mankind then say to yourself: we will cease to ...
How beastly the bourgeois is especially the male of the species-- Presentable, eminently presentable-- shall I make you a present ...
It ought to be lovely to be old to be full of the peace that comes of experience and wrinkled ...
Since I lost you I am silence-haunted, Sounds wave their little wings A moment, then in weariness settle On the ...
Close your eyes, my love, let me make you blind; They have taught you to see Only a mean arithmetic ...
I Now it is autumn and the falling fruit and the long journey towards oblivion. The apples falling like great ...
A snake came to my water-trough On a hot, hot day, and I in pyjamas for the heat, To drink ...
What large, dark hands are those at the window Lifted, grasping in the yellow light Which makes its way through ...
If you live along with all the other people and are just like them, and conform, and are nice you're ...
The quick sparks on the gorse bushes are leaping, Little jets of sunlight-texture imitating flame; Above them, exultant, the peewits ...
Look at them standing there in authority The pale-faces, As if it could have any effect any more. Pale-face authority, ...
Ah, my darling, when over the purple horizon shall loom The shrouded mother of a new idea, men hide their ...
At the open door of the room I stand and look at the night, Hold my hand to catch the ...
Oh the green glimmer of apples in the orchard, Lamps in a wash of rain! Oh the wet walk of ...
I wish it were spring in the world. Let it be spring! Come, bubbling, surging tide of sap! Come, rush ...
Somewhere the long mellow note of the blackbird Quickens the unclasping hands of hazel, Somewhere the wind-flowers fling their heads ...
My little love, my darling, You were a doorway to me; You let me out of the confines Into this ...
The acrid scents of autumn, Reminiscent of slinking beasts, make me fear Everything, tear-trembling stars of autumn And the snore ...
Between the avenues of cypresses, All in their scarlet cloaks, and surplices Of linen, go the chaunting choristers, The priests ...
As we live, we are transmitters of life. And when we fail to transmit life, life fails to flow through ...
My world is a painted fresco, where coloured shapes Of old, ineffectual lives linger blurred and warm; An endless tapestry ...
She is large and matronly And rather dirty, A little sardonic-looking, as if domesticity had driven her to it. Though ...
Along the avenue of cypresses, All in their scarlet cloaks and surplices Of linen, go the chanting choristers, The priests ...
If you make a revolution, make it for fun, don't make it in ghastly seriousness, don't do it in deadly ...
Her tawny eyes are onyx of thoughtlessness, Hardened they are like gems in ancient modesty; Yea, and her mouth's prudent ...
Thought, I love thought. But not the juggling and twisting of already existent ideas I despise that self-important game. Thought ...
There are four men mowing down by the Isar; I can hear the swish of the scythe-strokes, four Sharp breaths ...
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