D.H. Lawrence (1885–1930). New Poems. 1916.

39. Débâcle

THE TREES in trouble because of autumn,

And scarlet berries falling from the bush,

And all the myriad houseless seeds

Loosing hold in the wind’s insistent push

Moan softly with autumnal parturition,

Poor, obscure fruits extruded out of light

Into the world of shadow, carried down

Between the bitter knees of the after-night.

Bushed in an uncouth ardour, coiled at core

With a knot of life that only bliss can unravel,

Fall all the fruits most bitterly into earth

Bitterly into corrosion bitterly travel.

What is it internecine that is locked,

By very fierceness into a quiescence

Within the rage? We shall not know till it burst

Out of corrosion into new florescence.

Nay, but how tortured is the frightful seed

The spark intense within it, all without

Mordant corrosion gnashing and champing hard

For ruin on the naked small redoubt.

Bitter, to fold the issue, and make no sally;

To have the mystery, but not go forth;

To bear, but retaliate nothing, given to save

The spark in storms of corrosion, as seeds from the north.

The sharper, more horrid the pressure, the harder the heart

That saves the blue grain of eternal fire

Within its quick, committed to hold and wait

And suffer unheeding, only forbidden to expire.