, , , , , , , , , ,

Next Morning
D H Lawrence (11th September, 1885 – 2nd March, 1930)

How have I wandered here to this vaulted room
In the house of life? — the floor was ruffled with gold
Last evening, and she who was softly in bloom,
Glimmered as flowers that in perfume at twilight unfold

For the flush of the night; whereas now the gloom
Of every dirty, must – besprinkled mould,
And damp old web of misery’s heirloom
Deadens this day’s grey – dropping arras – fold.

And what is this that floats on the undermist
Of the mirror towards the dusty grate, as if feeling
Unsightly its way to the warmth? — this thing with a list
To the left?—this ghost like a candle swealing?

Pale – blurred, with two round black drops, as if it missed
Itself among everything else, here hungrily stealing
Upon me! — my own reflection! — explicit gist
Of my presence there in the mirror that leans from the ceiling!

Then will somebody square this shade with the being I know
I was last night, when my soul rang clear as a bell
And happy as rain in summer? Why should it be so?
What is there gone against me, why am I in hell?