Discipline

By David Herbert Lawrence

Discipline 

It is stormy, and raindrops cling like silver bees to the pane,

The thin sycamores in the playground are swinging with flattened leaves;

The heads of the boys move dimly through a yellow gloom that stains

The class; over them all the dark net of my discipline weaves.

It is no good, dear, gentleness and forbearance, I endured too long:

I have pushed my hands in the dark soil, under the flower of my soul

And the gentle leaves, and have felt where the roots are strong

Fixed in the darkness, grappling for the deep soil’s little control.

And there is the dark, my darling, where the roots are entangled and fight

Each one for its hold on the oblivious darkness, I know that there

In the night where we first have being, before we rise on the light,

We are not brothers, my darling, we fight and we do not spare.

And in the original dark the roots cannot keep, cannot know

Any communion whatever, but they bind themselves on to the dark,

And drawing the darkness together, crush from it a twilight, a slow

Burning that breaks at last into leaves and a flower’s bright spark.

I came to the boys with love, my dear, but they turned on me;

I came with gentleness, with my heart ’twixt my hands like a bowl,

Like a loving-cup, like a grail, but they spilt it triumphantly

And tried to break the vessel, and to violate my soul.

But what have I to do with the boys, deep down in my soul, my love?

I throw from out of the darkness my self like a flower into sight,

Like a flower from out of the night-time, I lift my face, and those

Who will may warm their hands at me, comfort this night.

But whosoever would pluck apart my flowering shall burn their hands,

So flowers are tender folk, and roots can only hide,

Yet my flowerings of love are a fire, and the scarlet brands

Of my love are roses to look at, but flames to chide.

But comfort me, my love, now the fires are low,

Now I am broken to earth like a winter destroyed, and all

Myself but a knowledge of roots, of roots in the dark that throw

A net on the undersoil, which lies passive beneath their thrall.

But comfort me, for henceforth my love is yours alone,

To you alone will I offer the bowl, to you will I give

My essence only, but love me, and I will atone

To you for my general loving, atone as long as I live.

Giorno Dei Morti 

Along the avenue of cypresses,

All in their scarlet cloaks and surplices

Of linen, go the chanting choristers,

The priests in gold and black, the villagers. . .

And all along the path to the cemetery

The round dark heads of men crowd silently,

And black-scarved faces of womenfolk, wistfully

Watch at the banner of death, and the mystery.

And at the foot of a grave a father stands

With sunken head, and forgotten, folded hands;

And at the foot of a grave a mother kneels

With pale shut face, nor either hears nor feels

The coming of the chanting choristers

Between the avenue of cypresses,

The silence of the many villagers,

The candle-flames beside the surplices.