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by D. H. Lawrence, 1916

Too far away, oh love, I know,
To save me from this haunted road,
Whose lofty roses break and blow
On a night-sky bent with a load

Of lights: each solitary rose,
Each arc-lamp golden does expose
Ghost beyond ghost of a blossom, shows
Night blenched with a thousand snows.

Of hawthorn and of lilac trees,
White lilac; shows discoloured night
Dripping with all the golden lees
Laburnum gives back to light.

And shows the red of hawthorn set
On high to the purple heaven of night,
Like flags in blenched blood newly wet,
Blood shed in the noiseless fight.

Of life for love and love for life,
Of hunger for a little food,
Of kissing, lost for want of a wife
Long ago, long ago wooed.
   .   .   .   .   .   .
Too far away you are, my love,
To steady my brain in this phantom show
That passes the nightly road above
And returns again below.

The enormous cliff of horse-chestnut trees
  Has poised on each of its ledges
An erect small girl looking down at me;
White-night-gowned little chits I see,
  And they peep at me over the edges
Of the leaves as though they would leap, should I call
  Them down to my arms;
"But, child, you're too small for me, too small
  Your little charms."

White little sheaves of night-gowned maids,
  Some other will thresh you out!
And i see leaning from the shades
A lilac like a lady there, who braids
  Her white mantilla about
Her face, and forward leans to catch the sight
    Of a man's face,
Gracefully sighing through the white
    Flowery mantilla of lace.

And another lilac in purple veiled
  Discreetly, all recklessly calls
In a low, shocking perfume, to know who has hailed
Her forth from the night: my strength has failed
  In her voice, my weak heart falls:
Oh, and see the laburnum shimmering
    Her draperies down,
As if she would slip the gold, and glimmering
    White, stand naked of gown.
   .   .   .   .   .   .
The pageant of flowery trees above
  The street pale-passionate goes,
And back again down the pavement, Love
  In a lesser pageant flows.

Two and two are the folk that walk,
  They pass in a half embrace
Of linkèd bodies, and they talk
  With dark face leaning to face.

Come then, my love, come as you will
  Along this haunted road,
Be whom you will, my darling, I shall
  Keep with you the troth I trowed.

Published in Amores

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