D. H. Lawrence

THE WANING moon looks upward, this grey night

Sheers 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.

This 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—they whimper about me, 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 seem torn.

Can I go nearer, never towards the door?

The ghosts and I, we mourn together, and shrink

In the shadow of the cart-shed—hovering on the brink

For ever, to enter the homestead no more.

Is it irrevocable? Can I really not go

Through the open yard-way? Can I not pass 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 could crush it, perish it all.