Always there, as I peep Between the fingers that cover my face! Which then is it that falls from its place And rolls down the steep? Is it the train That falls like meteorite Backward into space, to alight Never again? Or is it the illusory world That falls from reality As we look? Or are we Like a thunderbolt hurled? One or another Is lost, since we fall apart Endlessly, in one motion depart From each other. WAR-BABY THE CHILD like mustard-seed Rolls 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 there When 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 night Slopes round the heavens in one smooth curve Of easy sailing; odd red wicks serve To show where the ships at sea move out of sight. The place is palpable me, for here I was born Of this self-same darkness. Yet the shadowy house below Is out of bounds, and only the old ghosts know I have come, I feel them whimper in welcome, and mourn. My father suddenly died in the harvesting corn And the place is no longer ours. Watching, I hear No sound from the strangers, the place is dark, and fear Opens 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 shrink In the shadow of the cart-shed. Must we hover on the brink Forever, and never enter the homestead any more? Is it irrevocable? Can I really not go Through the open yard-way? Can I not go past the sheds And through to the mowie?--Only the dead in their beds Can 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