Poem of the Week: Grey Evening by DH Lawrence



  • Grey Evening
    When you went, how was it you carried with you
    My missal book of fine, flamboyant Hours?
    My book of turrets and of red-thorn bowers,
    And skies of gold, and ladies in bright tissue?
    Now underneath a blue-grey twilight, heaped
    Beyond the withering snow of the shorn fields
    Stands rubble of stunted houses; all is reaped
    And trodden that the happy summer yields.
    Now lamps like yellow echoes glimmer among
    The shadowy stubble of the under-dusk;
    As farther off the scythe of night is swung
    Ripe little stars come rolling from their husk.
    And all the earth is gone into a dust
    Of greyness mingled with a fume of gold,
    Timeless as branching lichens, pale as must,
    Since all the sky has withered and gone cold.
    And so I sit and scan the book of grey,
    Feeling the shadows like a blind man reading,
    All fearful lest I find the last words bleeding:
    Nay, take this weary Book of Hours away.

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