David Herbert Lawrence

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

David Herbert Lawrence Poems

81. Study 1/1/2004
82. Submergence 1/1/2004
83. Tease 1/1/2004
84. The Bride 1/1/2004
85. The Deepest Sensuality 1/1/2004
86. The Elephant Is Slow To Mate 7/8/2009
87. The End 1/1/2004
88. The Enkindled Spring 1/1/2004
89. The Gods! The Gods! 7/8/2009
90. The Hands Of The Betrothed 1/1/2004
91. The Inheritance 1/1/2004
92. The Mystic Blue 1/1/2004
93. The Prophet 1/1/2004
94. The Punisher 1/1/2004
95. The Revolutionary 1/1/2004
96. The Ship Of Death 1/1/2004
97. The Song Of A Man Who Has Come Through 1/1/2004
98. The Virgin Mother 1/1/2004
99. The Wild Common 1/1/2004
100. Thought 1/1/2004
101. To Women As Far As I'M Concerned 1/1/2004
102. Tortoise Family Connections 7/8/2009
103. Tortoise Gallantry 7/8/2009
104. Tortoise Shell 7/8/2009
105. Tortoise Shout 7/8/2009
106. Trees In The Garden 7/8/2009
107. Troth With The Dead 1/1/2004
108. Trust 1/22/2015
109. Turkey-Cock 5/21/2015
110. Virgin Youth 1/1/2004
111. We Are Transmitters 1/1/2004
112. Week-Night Service 1/1/2004
113. Whales Weep Not! 7/8/2009
114. Willy Wet-Leg 1/1/2004
115. 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

Autumn Sunshine

THE SUN sets out the autumn crocuses
And fills them up a pouring measure
Of death-producing wine, till treasure
Runs waste down their chalices.

All, all Persephone's pale cups of mould
Are on the board, are over-filled;
The portion to the gods is spilled;
Now, mortals all, take hold!

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