Restlessness

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



At the open door of the room I stand and look at the night,
Hold my hand to catch the raindrops, that slant into sight,
Arriving grey from the darkness above suddenly into the light of the room.
I will escape from the hollow room, the box of light,  
And be out in the bewildering darkness, which is always fecund, which might
Mate my hungry soul with a germ of its womb.
 
I will go out to the night, as a man goes down to the shore  
To draw his net through the surf’s thin line, at the dawn before  
The sun warms the sea, little, lonely and sad, sifting the sobbing tide.
I will sift the surf that edges the night, with my net, the four
Strands of my eyes and my lips and my hands and my feet, sifting the store
Of flotsam until my soul is tired or satisfied.  
 
I will catch in my eyes’ quick net  
The faces of all the women as they go past,  
Bend over them with my soul, to cherish the wet
Cheeks and wet hair a moment, saying: “Is it you?”  
Looking earnestly under the dark umbrellas, held fast
Against the wind; and if, where the lamplight blew  
Its rainy swill about us, she answered me  
With a laugh and a merry wildness that it was she
Who was seeking me, and had found me at last to free
Me now from the stunting bonds of my chastity,  
How glad I should be!  
 
Moving along in the mysterious ebb of the night  
Pass the men whose eyes are shut like anemones in a dark pool;
Why don’t they open with vision and speak to me, what have they in sight?
Why do I wander aimless among them, desirous fool?
I can always linger over the huddled books on the stalls,
Always gladden my amorous fingers with the touch of their leaves,
Always kneel in courtship to the shelves in the doorways, where falls
The shadow, always offer myself to one mistress, who always receives.
 
But oh, it is not enough, it is all no good.
There is something I want to feel in my running blood,
Something I want to touch; I must hold my face to the rain,
I must hold my face to the wind, and let it explain
Me its life as it hurries in secret.  
I will trail my hands again through the drenched, cold leaves
Till my hands are full of the chillness and touch of leaves,
Till at length they induce me to sleep, and to forget.

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Submitted on May 13, 2011

Modified on March 20, 2023

2:10 min read
82

Quick analysis:

Scheme AABAAB CCDCCD EFEGFGHHHHH AIAIJKJK XXLLXKKE
Closest metre Iambic heptameter
Characters 2,189
Words 435
Stanzas 5
Stanza Lengths 6, 6, 11, 8, 8

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…

All David Herbert Lawrence poems | David Herbert Lawrence Books

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