D. H. Lawrence

THE SUN shines.

The coltsfoot flowers along the railway banks

Shine flat like coin which Zeus in thanks

Showers on our lines.

A steeple

In purplish elms; daffodils

Sparkle beneath; luminous hills

Beyond—but no people.

England—O Danaë

To this spring of cosmic gold

Which falls on your lap of mould!

What then are we?

What are we—

Clay-colored, who roll in fatigue

As the train runs league after league

From our destiny?

Some hand is over my face,

Some dark hand. Peeping through the fingers,

I see a world that lingers

Behind, yet keeps pace.

Always, as I peep

Through the fingers that cover my face,

Something seems falling from place,

Seems to roll down the steep.

Is it the train,

That falls like a meteorite

Backward in 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

We are lost, since we fall apart

Forever, forever depart

From each other.