D. H. Lawrence (1919) _Bay: A Book of Poems_ Transcriber's Note: These poems were first publishedby the Beaumont Press in a limited edition. Facsimilepage images from the original publication, includingfacsimile images of the original coloured illustrationsby Anne Estelle Rice, are freely available from theInternet Archive. BAY . . A BOOKOF . . POEMS . . BYD: H: LAWRENCE To Cynthia Asquith CONTENTS GUARDS Where the trees rise like cliffs THE LITTLE TOWN AT EVENING The chime of the bells LAST HOURS The cool of an oak's unchequered shade TOWN London AFTER THE OPERA Down the stone stairs GOING BACK The night turns slowly round ON THE MARCH We are out on the open road BOMBARDMENT The town has opened to the sun WINTER-LULL Because of the silent snow THE ATTACK When we came out of the wood OBSEQUIAL ODE Surely you've trodden straight SHADES Shall I tell you, then, how it is?-- BREAD UPON THE WATERS So you are lost to me RUINATION The sun is bleeding its fires upon the mist RONDEAU The hours have tumbled their leaden sands TOMMIES IN THE TRAIN The sun shines WAR-BABY The child like mustard-seed NOSTALGIA The waning moon looks upward COLOPHON GUARDS! A Review in Hyde Park 1913. The Crowd Watches. WHERE the trees rise like cliffs, proud and blue-tinted in the distance, Between the cliffs of the trees, on the grey- green parkRests a still line of soldiers, red motionless range of guardsSmouldering with darkened busbies beneath the bay- onets' slant rain. Colossal in nearness a blue police sits still on his horseGuarding the path; his hand relaxed at his thigh, And skyward his face is immobile, eyelids aslantIn tedium, and mouth relaxed as if smiling--ineffabletedium! So! So! Gaily a general canters across the space, With white plumes blinking under the evening grey sky. And suddenly, as if the ground movedThe red range heaves in slow, magnetic reply. EVOLUTIONS OF SOLDIERS The red range heaves and compulsory sways, ah see! in the flush of a marchSoftly-impulsive advancing as water towards a weir from the archOf shadow emerging as blood emerges from inward shades of our nightEncroaching towards a crisis, a meeting, a spasm and throb of delight. The wave of soldiers, the coming wave, the throbbing red breast of approachUpon us; dark eyes as here beneath the busbies glit- tering, dark threats that broachOur beached vessel; darkened rencontre inhuman, and closed warm lips, and darkMouth-hair of soldiers passing above us, over the wreck of our bark. And so, it is ebb-time, they turn, the eyes beneath the busbies are gone. But the blood has suspended its timbre, the heart from out of oblivionKnows but the retreat of the burning shoulders, the red-swift waves of the sweetFire horizontal declining and ebbing, the twilit ebb of retreat. THE LITTLE TOWN AT EVENING THE chime of the bells, and the church clock striking eightSolemnly and distinctly cries down the babel of children still playing in the hay. The church draws nearer upon us, gentle and greatIn shadow, covering us up with her grey. Like drowsy children the houses fall asleepUnder the fleece of shadow, as in betweenTall and dark the church moves, anxious to keepTheir sleeping, cover them soft unseen. Hardly a murmur comes from the sleeping brood, I wish the church had covered me up with the restIn the home-place. Why is it she should excludeMe so distinctly from sleeping with those I love best? LAST HOURS THE cool of an oak's unchequered shadeFalls on me as I lie in deep grassWhich rushes upward, blade beyond blade, While higher the darting grass-flowers passPiercing the blue with their crocketed spiresAnd waving flags, and the ragged firesOf the sorrel's cresset--a green, brave townVegetable, new in renown. Over the tree's edge, as over a mountainSurges the white of the moon, A cloud comes up like the surge of a fountain, Pressing round and low at first, but soonHeaving and piling a round white dome. How lovely it is to be at homeLike an insect in the grassLetting life pass. There's a scent of clover crept through my hairFrom the full resource of some purple domeWhere that lumbering bee, who can hardly bearHis burden above me, never has clomb. But not even the scent of insouciant flowersMakes pause the hours. Down the valley roars a townward train. I hear it through the grassDragging the links of my shortening chainSouthwards, alas! TOWN LONDONUsed to wear her lights splendidly, Flinging her shawl-fringe over the River, Tassels in abandon. And up in the skyA two-eyed clock, like an owlSolemnly used to approve, chime, chiming, Approval, goggle-eyed fowl. There are no gleams on the River, No goggling clock;No sound from St. Stephen's;No lamp-fringed frock. Instead, Darkness, and skin-wrappedFleet, hurrying limbs, Soft-footed dead. LondonOriginal, wolf-wrappedIn pelts of wolves, all her luminousGarments gone. London, with hairLike a forest darkness, like a marshOf rushes, ere the RomansBroke in her lair. It is wellThat London, lair of suddenMale and female darknessesHas broken her spell. AFTER THE OPERA DOWN the stone stairsGirls with their large eyes wide with tragedyLift looks of shocked and momentous emotion up at me. And I smile. LadiesStepping like birds with their bright and pointed feetPeer anxiously forth, as if for a boat to carry them out of the wreckage, And among the wreck of the theatre crowdI stand and smile. They take tragedy so becomingly. Which pleases me. But when I meet the weary eyesThe reddened aching eyes of the bar-man with thin arms, I am glad to go back to where I came from. GOING BACK THE NIGHT turns slowly round, Swift trains go by in a rush of light;Slow trains steal past. This train beats anxiously, outward bound. But I am not here. I am away, beyond the scope of this turning;There, where the pivot is, the axisOf all this gear. I, who sit in tears, I, whose heart is torn with parting;Who cannot bear to think back to the departure platform;My spirit hears Voices of menSound of artillery, aeroplanes, presences, And more than all, the dead-sure silence, The pivot again. There, at the axisPain, or love, or griefSleep on speed; in dead certainty;Pure relief. There, at the pivotTime sleeps again. No has-been, no here-after; only the perfectedSilence of men. ON THE MARCH WE are out on the open road. Through the low west window a cold light flowsOn the floor where never my numb feet trodeBefore; onward the strange road goes. Soon the spaces of the western skyWith shutters of sombre cloud will close. But we'll still be together, this road and I, Together, wherever the long road goes. The wind chases by us, and over the cornPale shadows flee from us as if from their foes. Like a snake we thresh on the long, forlornLand, as onward the long road goes. From the sky, the low, tired moon fades out;Through the poplars the night-wind blows;Pale, sleepy phantoms are tossed aboutAs the wind asks whither the wan road goes. Away in the distance wakes a lamp. Inscrutable small lights glitter in rows. But they come no nearer, and still we trampOnward, wherever the strange road goes. Beat after beat falls sombre and dull. The wind is unchanging, not one of us knowsWhat will be in the final lullWhen we find the place where this dead road goes. For something must come, since we pass and passAlong in the coiled, convulsive throesOf this marching, along with the invisible grassThat goes wherever this old road goes. Perhaps we shall come to oblivion. Perhaps we shall march till our tired toesTread over the edge of the pit, and we're goneDown the endless slope where the last road goes. If so, let us forge ahead, straight onIf we're going to sleep the sleep with thoseThat fall forever, knowing noneOf this land whereon the wrong road goes. BOMBARDMENT THE TOWN has opened to the sun. Like a flat red lily with a million petalsShe unfolds, she comes undone. A sharp sky brushes uponThe myriad glittering chimney-tipsAs she gently exhales to the sun. Hurrying creatures runDown the labyrinth of the sinister flower. What is it they shun? A dark bird falls from the sun. It curves in a rush to the heart of the vastFlower: the day has begun. WINTER-LULL Because of the silent snow, we are all hushed Into awe. No sound of guns, nor overhead no rushed Vibration to drawOur attention out of the void wherein we are crushed. A crow floats past on level wings Noiselessly. Uninterrupted silence swings Invisibly, inaudiblyTo and fro in our misgivings. We do not look at each other, we hide Our daunted eyes. White earth, and ruins, ourselves, and nothing beside. It all beliesOur existence; we wait, and are still denied. We are folded together, men and the snowy ground Into nullity. There is silence, only the silence, never a sound Nor a verityTo assist us; disastrously silence-bound! THE ATTACK WHEN we came out of the woodWas a great light!The night uprisen stoodIn white. I wondered, I looked aroundIt was so fair. The brightStubble upon the groundShone white Like any field of snow;Yet warm the chaseOf faint night-breaths did goAcross my face! White-bodied and warm the night was, Sweet-scented to hold in my throat. White and alight the night was. A pale stroke smote The pulse through the whole bland beingWhich was This and me;A pulse that still went fleeing, Yet did not flee. After the terrible rage, the death, This wonder stood glistening?All shapes of wonder, with suspended breath, Arrested listening In ecstatic reverie. The whole, white Night!--With wonder, every black treeBlossomed outright. I saw the transfigurationAnd the present Host. TransubstantiationOf the Luminous Ghost. OBSEQUIAL ODE SURELY you've trodden straightTo the very door!Surely you took your fateFaultlessly. Now it's too lateTo say more. It is evident you were right, That man has a course to goA voyage to sail beyond the charted seas. You have passed from out of sight And my questions blowBack from the straight horizon that ends all one sees. Now like a vessel in port You unlade your riches unto death, And glad are the eager dead to receive you there. Let the dead sortYour cargo out, breath from breathLet them disencumber your bounty, let them all share. I imagine dead hands are brighter, Their fingers in sunset shineWith jewels of passion once broken through you as a prismBreaks light into jewels; and dead breasts whiter For your wrath; and yes, I opineThey anoint their brows with your blood, as a perfect chrism. On your body, the beaten anvil, Was hammered outThat moon-like sword the ascendant dead unsheatheAgainst us; sword that no man will Put to rout;Sword that severs the question from us who breathe. Surely you've trodden straight To the very door. You have surely achieved your fate;And the perfect dead are elate To have won once more. Now to the dead you are giving Your last allegiance. But what of us who are livingAnd fearful yet of believing In your pitiless legions. SHADES SHALL I tell you, then, how it is?--There came a cloven gleamLike a tongue of darkened flameTo flicker in me. And so I seemTo have you still the sameIn one world with me. In the flicker of a flower, In a worm that is blind, yet strives, In a mouse that pauses to listen Glimmers ourShadow; yet it deprivesThem none of their glisten. In every shaken morselI see our shadow trembleAs if it rippled from out of us hand in hand. As if it were part and parcel, One shadow, and we need not dissembleOur darkness: do you understand? For I have told you plainly how it is. BREAD UPON THE WATERS. SO you are lost to me!Ah you, you ear of corn straight lying, What food is this for the darkly flyingFowls of the Afterwards! White bread afloat on the waters, Cast out by the hand that scattersFood untowards, Will you come back when the tide turns?After many days? My heart yearnsTo know. Will you return after many daysTo say your say as a traveller says, More marvel than woe? Drift then, for the sightless birdsAnd the fish in shadow-waved herdsTo approach you. Drift then, bread cast out;Drift, lest I fall in doubt, And reproach you. For you are lost to me! RUINATION THE sun is bleeding its fires upon the mistThat huddles in grey heaps coiling and holding back. Like cliffs abutting in shadow a drear grey seaSome street-ends thrust forward their stack. On the misty waste-lands, away from the flushing greyOf the morning the elms are loftily dimmed, and tallAs if moving in air towards us, tall angelsOf darkness advancing steadily over us all. RONDEAU OF A CONSCIENTIOUSOBJECTOR. THE hours have tumbled their leaden, mono- tonous sandsAnd piled them up in a dull grey heap in the West. I carry my patience sullenly through the waste lands;To-morrow will pour them all back, the dull hours I detest. I force my cart through the sodden filth that is pressedInto ooze, and the sombre dirt spouts up at my handsAs I make my way in twilight now to rest. The hours have tumbled their leaden, monotonous sands. A twisted thorn-tree still in the evening standsDefending the memory of leaves and the happy round nest. But mud has flooded the homes of these weary landsAnd piled them up in a dull grey heap in the West. All day has the clank of iron on iron distressedThe nerve-bare place. Now a little silence expandsAnd a gasp of relief. But the soul is still compressed:I carry my patience sullenly through the waste lands. The hours have ceased to fall, and a star commandsShadows to cover our stricken manhood, and blestSleep to make us forget: but he understands:To-morrow will pour them all back, the dull hours I detest. TOMMIES IN THE TRAIN THE SUN SHINES, The coltsfoot flowers along the railway banksShine like flat coin which Jove in thanksStrews each side the lines. A steepleIn purple elms, daffodilsSparkle beneath; luminous hillsBeyond--and no people. England, Oh DanaëTo this spring of cosmic goldThat falls on your lap of mould!What then are we? What are weClay-coloured, who roll in fatigueAs the train falls league by leagueFrom our destiny? A hand is over my face, A cold hand. I peep between the fingersTo watch the world that lingersBehind, yet keeps pace. Always there, as I peepBetween the fingers that cover my face!Which then is it that falls from its placeAnd rolls down the steep? Is it the trainThat falls like meteoriteBackward into space, to alightNever again? Or is it the illusory worldThat falls from realityAs we look? Or are weLike a thunderbolt hurled? One or anotherIs lost, since we fall apartEndlessly, in one motion departFrom each other. WAR-BABY THE CHILD like mustard-seedRolls out of the husk of death Into the woman's fertile, fathomless lap. Look, it has taken root!See how it flourisheth. See how it rises with magical, rosy sap! As for our faith, it was thereWhen we did not know, did not care; It fell from our husk like a little, hasty seed. Sing, it is all we need. Sing, for the little weed Will flourish its branches in heaven when we slumber beneath. NOSTALGIA THE WANING MOON looks upward; this grey nightSlopes round the heavens in one smooth curveOf easy sailing; odd red wicks serveTo show where the ships at sea move out of sight. The place is palpable me, for here I was bornOf this self-same darkness. Yet the shadowy house belowIs out of bounds, and only the old ghosts knowI have come, I feel them whimper in welcome, and mourn. My father suddenly died in the harvesting cornAnd the place is no longer ours. Watching, I hearNo sound from the strangers, the place is dark, and fearOpens my eyes till the roots of my vision seems torn. Can I go no nearer, never towards the door?The ghosts and I we mourn together, and shrinkIn the shadow of the cart-shed. Must we hover on the brinkForever, and never enter the homestead any more? Is it irrevocable? Can I really not goThrough the open yard-way? Can I not go past the shedsAnd through to the mowie?--Only the dead in their bedsCan know the fearful anguish that this is so. I kiss the stones, I kiss the moss on the wall, And wish I could pass impregnate into the place. I wish I could take it all in a last embrace. I wish with my breast I here could annihilate it all. HERE ENDS BAY A BOOK OF POEMS BY D. H. Lawrence The Cover and the Decorations designed by Anne Estelle Rice The Typography and Binding arranged by Cyril W. Beaumont Printed by Hand on his Press at 75 Charing Cross Road in the City of Westminster Completed November the Twentieth MDCCCCXIX [Logo] SIMPLEX . MUNDITIIS . . . THE . BEAUMONT . PRESS Pressman Charles Wright Compositor C. W. Beaumont