Case Départ?
Click here to return to the article...

Next Morning
Next Morning, by D.H. Lawrence

HOW have I wandered here to this vaulted room 
In the house of life?—the floor was ruffled with gold 
Last evening, and she who was softly in bloom, 
Glimmered as flowers that in perfume at twilight unfold 
For the flush of the night; whereas now the gloom         5
Of every dirty, must-besprinkled mould, 
And damp old web of misery’s heirloom 
Deadens this day’s grey-dropping arras-fold. 
And what is this that floats on the undermist 
Of the mirror towards the dusty grate, as if feeling  10
Unsightly its way to the warmth?—this thing with a list 
To the left?—this ghost like a candle swealing? 
Pale-blurred, with two round black drops, as if it missed 
Itself among everything else, here hungrily stealing 
Upon me!—my own reflection!—explicit gist  15
Of my presence there in the mirror that leans from the ceiling! 
Then will somebody square this shade with the being I know 
I was last night, when my soul rang clear as a bell 
And happy as rain in summer? Why should it be so? 
What is there gone against me, why am I in hell?  20

© 1995-2007 All rights reserved.