This morning I find myself in the mood for D.H. Lawrence. His poems.
What large, dark hands are those at the window
Grasping in the golden light
Which weaves its way through the evening wind
At my heart’s delight?
Ah, only the leaves! But in the west
I see a redness suddenly come
Into the evening’s anxious breast–
‘Tis the wound of love goes home!
From “Love on the Farm”
I love the pre-Raphaelite moodiness of Lawrence, and his vaguely gnostic sentimentality. He had a serious disability (tuberculosis) and lived his moments riding on the back of the black, stuttering heart. That he was a poet of autumn is undeniable, until you factor in he was a poet of winter, spring, and summer. He wrote too many poems. Most are no good at all. But Kenneth Rexroth collected the best of them in a “selected” poems which you still can find in your old civic library if you’re lucky.