David Herbert Lawrence
David Herbert Lawrence Poems
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.
When did you start your tricks
What do you stand on such high legs for?
Why this length of shredded shank
Is it so that you shall lift your centre of gravity upwards
And weigh no more than air as you alight upon me,