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Best Famous David Herbert Lawrence Poems


Here is a collection of the all-time best famous David Herbert Lawrence poems. This is a select list of the best famous David Herbert Lawrence poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous David Herbert Lawrence poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of David Herbert Lawrence poems.

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by David Herbert Lawrence |

If You are a Man

 If you are a man, and believe in the destiny of mankind
then say to yourself: we will cease to care
about property and money and mechanical devices,
and open our consciousness to the deep, mysterious life
that we are now cut off from.

The machine shall be abolished from the earth again;
it is a mistake that mankind has made;
money shall cease to be, and property shall cease to perplex
and we will find the way to immediate contact with life
and with one another.

To know the moon as we have never known
yet she is knowable.
To know a man as we have never known
a man, as never yet a man was knowable, yet still shall be.


by David Herbert Lawrence |

Dreams

 All people dream, but not equally.
Those who dream by night in the dusty recesses of their mind,
Wake in the morning to find that it was vanity.

But the dreamers of the day are dangerous people,
For they dream their dreams with open eyes,
And make them come true.


by David Herbert Lawrence |

The White Horse

 The youth walks up to the white horse, to put its halter on
and the horse looks at him in silence.
They are so silent, they are in another world.


by David Herbert Lawrence |

Piano

 Softly, in the dusk, a woman is singing to me;
Taking me back down the vista of years, till I see
A child sitting under the piano, in the boom of the tingling strings
And pressing the small, poised feet of a mother who smiles as she sings.

In spite of myself, the insidious mastery of song
Betrays me back, till the heart of me weeps to belong
To the old Sunday evenings at home, with winter outside
And hymns in the cozy parlor, the tinkling piano our guide.

So now it is vain for the singer to burst into clamor
With the great black piano appassionato. The glamor
Of childish days is upon me, my manhood is cast
Down in the flood of remembrance, I weep like a child for the past.


by David Herbert Lawrence |

Silence

 Since I lost you I am silence-haunted,
Sounds wave their little wings 
A moment, then in weariness settle
On the flood that soundless swings.

Whether the people in the street
Like pattering ripples go by, 
Or whether the theatre sighs and sighs
With a loud, hoarse sigh: 

Or the wind shakes a ravel of light
Over the dead-black river,
Or night’s last echoing 
Makes the daybreak shiver: 

I feel the silence waiting 
To take them all up again 
In its vast completeness, enfolding
The sound of men.


by David Herbert Lawrence |

Patience

 A wind comes from the north
Blowing little flocks of birds 
Like spray across the town, 
And a train, roaring forth, 
Rushes stampeding down
With cries and flying curds
Of steam, out of the darkening north.

Whither I turn and set 
Like a needle steadfastly,
Waiting ever to get
The news that she is free;
But ever fixed, as yet, 
To the lode of her agony.


by David Herbert Lawrence |

Nothing To Save

 There is nothing to save, now all is lost,
but a tiny core of stillness in the heart
like the eye of a violet.


by David Herbert Lawrence |

The Gods! The Gods!

 People were bathing and posturing themselves on the beach, 
and all was dreary, great robot limbs, robot breasts, 
robot voices, robot even the gay umbrellas.

But a woman, shy and alone, was washing herself under a tap and the glimmer of the presence of the gods was like
lilies, and like water-lilies.


by David Herbert Lawrence |

Last Words to Miriam

 Yours is the shame and sorrow, 
But the disgrace is mine; 
Your love was dark and thorough, 
Mine was the love of the sun for a flower 
He creates with his shine. 

I was diligent to explore you, 
Blossom you stalk by stalk, 
Till my fire of creation bore you 
Shrivelling down in the final dour 
Anguish -- then I suffered a balk. 

I knew your pain, and it broke 
My fine, craftsman's nerve; 
Your body quailed at my stroke, 
And my courage failed to give you the last 
Fine torture you did deserve. 

You are shapely, you are adorned, 
But opaque and dull in the flesh, 
Who, had I but pierced with the thorned 
Fire-threshing anguish, were fused and cast 
In a lovely illumined mesh. 

Like a painted window: the best 
Suffering burnt through your flesh, 
Undrossed it and left it blest 
With a quivering sweet wisdom of grace: but now 
Who shall take you afresh? 

Now who will burn you free 
From your body's terrors and dross, 
Since the fire has failed in me? 
What man will stoop in your flesh to plough 
The shrieking cross? 

A mute, nearly beautiful thing 
Is your face, that fills me with shame 
As I see it hardening, 
Warping the perfect image of God, 
And darkening my eternal fame.


by David Herbert Lawrence |

Giorno dei Morti

 Along the avenue of cypresses, 
All in their scarlet cloaks and surplices 
Of linen, go the chanting choristers, 
The priests in gold and black, the villagers. . . 

And all along the path to the cemetery 
The round dark heads of men crowd silently, 
And black-scarved faces of womenfolk, wistfully 
Watch at the banner of death, and the mystery. 

And at the foot of a grave a father stands 
With sunken head, and forgotten, folded hands; 
And at the foot of a grave a mother kneels 
With pale shut face, nor either hears nor feels 

The coming of the chanting choristers 
Between the avenue of cypresses, 
The silence of the many villagers, 
The candle-flames beside the surplices.