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Lotus Hurt by the Cold

David Herbert Lawrence 1885 (Eastwood, Nottinghamshire) – 1930 (Vence)

How many times, like lotus lilies risen
 Upon the surface of a river, there
 Have risen floating on my blood the rare
Soft glimmers of my hope escaped from prison.
 
So I am clothed all over with the light
 And sensitive beautiful blossoming of passion;
 Till naked for her in the finest fashion
The flowers of all my mud swim into sight.
 
And then I offer all myself unto
 This woman who likes to love me: but she turns
 A look of hate upon the flower that burns
To break and pour her out its precious dew.
 
And slowly all the blossom shuts in pain,
 And all the lotus buds of love sink over
 To die unopened: when my moon-faced lover,
Kind on the weight of suffering, smiles again.

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Submitted on May 13, 2011

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David Herbert Lawrence

David Herbert Lawrence was an English writer and poet. His collected works represent, among other things, an extended reflection upon the dehumanising effects of modernity and industrialisation. Lawrence's writing explores issues such as sexuality, emotional health, vitality, spontaneity, and instinct. Lawrence's opinions earned him many enemies and he endured official persecution, censorship, and misrepresentation of his creative work throughout the second half of his life, much of which he spent in a voluntary exile he called his "savage pilgrimage". At the time of his death, his public reputation was that of a pornographer who had wasted his considerable talents. E. M. Forster, in an obituary notice, challenged this widely held view, describing him as "the greatest imaginative novelist of our generation." Later, the literary critic F. R. Leavis championed both his artistic integrity and his moral seriousness. more…

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