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D H Lawrence
D H Lawrence
D H Lawrence
Lawrence
Introduction...................................................................................(2)
Poem 2: Thought............................................................................(4)
Poem 4: Sick..................................................................................(6)
Poem 6: Piano................................................................................(8)
Poem 7 : Self-pity............................................................................(9)
C o l o p h o n . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ( 11 )
Introduction
D
.H. Lawrence (1885-1930), English novelist, storywriter, critic, poet and painter, one of the
greatest figures in 20th-century English literature.
David Herbert Lawrence was born on September 11, 1885, in Eastwood, Nottinghamshire,
central England. He was the fourth child of a struggling coal miner who was a heavy drinker. His
mother was a former schoolteacher, greatly superior in education to her husband. Lawrence’s
childhood was dominated by poverty and friction between his parents. He was educated at
Nottingham High School, to which he had won a scholarship. He worked as a clerk in a surgical
appliance factory and then for four years as a pupil-teacher. After studies at Nottingham University,
Lawrence matriculated at 22 and briefly pursued a teaching career.
He worked as a clerk in a surgical appliance factory and then for four years as a pupil-teacher.
After studies at Nottingham University, Lawrence matriculated at 22 and briefly pursued a
teaching career. Lawrence’s mother died in 1910; he helped her die by giving her an overdose of
sleeping medicine.
In 1909, a number of Lawrence’s poems were published by Ford Max Ford in the English Review. The
appearance of his first novel, The White Peacock(1911), launched Lawrence into a writing career. In
1912 he met Frieda von Richthofen, the professor Ernest Weekly’s wife and fell in love with her. In
1914 Lawrence married Frieda von Richthofen, and traveled with her in several countries.
Poem 1 :
I n a Boat
S ee the stars, love,
In the water much clearer and brighter
Than those above us, and whiter,
Like nenuphars!
There! Did you see
That spark fly up at us? Even
Star-shadow shine, love: Stars are not safe in heaven!
How many stars in your bowl? What of me then, love, me?
How many shadows in your soul?
Only mine, love mine? What then, love, if soon
When I move the oars, see Your star be tossed over a wave?
How the stars are tossed, Would the darkness look like a grave?
Distorted, even lost! Would you swoon, love, swoon?
Even yours, do you see?
Poem 2 :
T hought
T hought, I love thought.
But not the jaggling and twisting od already existent ideas
I despise that self-important game.
Thought is the welling up of unknown life into consciousness,
Thought is the testing of statements on the touchstone of the conscience,
Thought is gazing on to the face of life, and reading what can be read,
Thought is pondering over experience, and coming to conclusion.
Thought is not a trick, or an exercise, or a set of dodges,
Thought is a man in his wholeness wholly attending.
Poem 3 :
A Living
A bird
Picks up its seeds or little snails
Between heedless earth and heaven
In heedlessness.
Poem 4 :
S ick
I am sick, because I have given myself away.
I have given myself to the people when they came
So cultured, even bringing little gifts,
So they pecked a shred of my life, and flew off with a croak
Of sneaking exultance.
So now I have lost too much, and am sick.
Poem 5 :
D iscord in Childhood
O utside the house an ash-tree hung its terrible whips,
And at night when the wind rose, the lash of the tree
Shrieked and slashed the wind, as a ship’s
Weird rigging in a storm shrieks hideously.
Poem 6 :
P iano
S oftly, in the dusk, a woman is singing to me;
Taking me back down the vista of years, till I see
A child sitting under the piano, in the boom of the tingling strings
And pressing the small, poised feet of a mother who smiles as she
sings.
Poem 7 :
S elf-pity
I never saw a wild thing
Sorry for itself.
A small bird will drop frozen dead from a bough
Without ever having felt sorry for itself.
Poem 8 :
Colophon
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