David Herbert Lawrence

[D.H. Lawrence] (11 September 1885 – 2 March 1930 / Nottinghamshire / England)

David Herbert Lawrence Poems

81. Tease 1/1/2004
82. The Bride 1/1/2004
83. The Deepest Sensuality 1/1/2004
84. The Elephant Is Slow To Mate 7/8/2009
85. The End 1/1/2004
86. The Enkindled Spring 1/1/2004
87. The Gods! The Gods! 7/8/2009
88. The Hands Of The Betrothed 1/1/2004
89. The Inheritance 1/1/2004
90. The Mystic Blue 1/1/2004
91. The Prophet 1/1/2004
92. The Punisher 1/1/2004
93. The Revolutionary 1/1/2004
94. The Ship Of Death 1/1/2004
95. The Song Of A Man Who Has Come Through 1/1/2004
96. The Virgin Mother 1/1/2004
97. The Wild Common 1/1/2004
98. Thought 1/1/2004
99. To Women As Far As I'M Concerned 1/1/2004
100. Tortoise Family Connections 7/8/2009
101. Tortoise Gallantry 7/8/2009
102. Tortoise Shell 7/8/2009
103. Tortoise Shout 7/8/2009
104. Trees In The Garden 7/8/2009
105. Troth With The Dead 1/1/2004
106. Trust 1/22/2015
107. Virgin Youth 1/1/2004
108. We Are Transmitters 1/1/2004
109. Week-Night Service 1/1/2004
110. Whales Weep Not! 7/8/2009
111. Willy Wet-Leg 1/1/2004
112. Worm Either Way 1/1/2004
Best Poem of David Herbert Lawrence

A Winter's Tale

Yesterday the fields were only grey with scattered snow,
And now the longest grass-leaves hardly emerge;
Yet her deep footsteps mark the snow, and go
On towards the pines at the hills’ white verge.

I cannot see her, since the mist’s white scarf
Obscures the dark wood and the dull orange sky;
But she’s waiting, I know, impatient and cold, half
Sobs struggling into her frosty sigh.

Why does she come so promptly, when she must know
That she’s only the nearer to the inevitable farewell;
The hill is steep, on the snow my steps are slow— ...

Read the full of A Winter's Tale

Self-Pity

I never saw a wild thing
sorry for itself.
A small bird will drop frozen dead from a bough
without ever having felt sorry for itself.

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