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The pine-trees bend to listen to the autumn wind as it mutters
Something which sets the black poplars ashake with hysterical laughter;
While slowly the house of day is closing its eastern shutters.
Further down the valley the clustered tombstones recede,
Winding about their dimness the mist's grey cerements, after
The street lamps in the darkness have suddenly started to bleed.
The leaves fly over the window and utter a word as they pass
To the face that leans from the darkness, intent, with two dark-filled eyes
That watch for ever earnestly from behind the window glass.
This poem is in the public domain.
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David Herbert Richards Lawrence (1885 - 1930) was an English novelist, poet, essayist, critic, playwright, and painter. The son of a miner and a school teacher, Bert (as he was called) grew up in extreme poverty and suffered from poor health. Although he loved to read, he was not a particularly good student. He did, however, manage to win a high school scholarship and became a teacher before success as a writer allowed him to pursue that career fulltime. Accused more than once of spying for the Germans, Bert eventually left his home country to travel the world with his wife. The Lawrences intended to settle in America, but problems with his health forced them to return to Europe; Lawrence died in France at the age of 45. A prolific writer who produced work in multiple genres, Lawrence is best known as a novelist, although he wrote more than 800 poems and was considered an extremely gifted travel writer. Public opinion during his lifetime and even till today paints him as either utterly profane and depraved or as a brilliant and creative genius.
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barbsteff:
genius it is. Startlingly good personification.
Posted 12/09/2019 04:47 PM
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paradea:
Love D.H. Lawrence. Great poem!!
Posted 12/09/2019 08:32 AM
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michael escoubas:
It's not "just" you! I'm with pwax, acknowledging genius. Great post, Jayne.
Posted 12/09/2019 08:07 AM
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pwax:
I vote for genius.
Posted 12/09/2019 07:52 AM
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