Part 27 (1/2)

David Herbert Lawrence, born in 1885, is one of the most psychologically intense of the modern poets. This intensity, ranging from a febrile morbidity to an exalted and almost frenzied mysticism, is seen even in his prose works--particularly in his short stories, _The Prussian Officer_ (1917), his a.n.a.lytical _Sons and Lovers_ (1913), and the rhapsodic novel, _The Rainbow_ (1915).

As a poet he is often caught in the net of his own emotions; his pa.s.sion thickens his utterance and distorts his rhythms, which sometimes seem purposely harsh and bitter-flavored. But within his range he is as powerful as he is poignant. His most notable volumes of poetry are _Amores_ (1916), _Look! We Have Come Through!_ (1918), and _New Poems_ (1920).

PEOPLE

The great gold apples of light Hang from the street's long bough Dripping their light On the faces that drift below, On the faces that drift and blow Down the night-time, out of sight In the wind's sad sough.

The ripeness of these apples of night Distilling over me Makes sickening the white Ghost-flux of faces that hie Them endlessly, endlessly by Without meaning or reason why They ever should be.

PIANO

Softly, in the dusk, a woman is singing to me; Taking me back down the vista of years, till I see A child sitting under the piano, in the boom of the tingling strings And pressing the small, poised feet of a mother who smiles as she sings.

In spite of myself, the insidious mastery of song Betrays me back, till the heart of me weeps to belong To the old Sunday evenings at home, with winter outside And hymns in the cosy parlour, the tinkling piano our guide.

So now it is vain for the singer to burst into clamour With the great black piano appa.s.sionato. The glamour Of childish days is upon me, my manhood is cast Down in the flood of remembrance, I weep like a child for the past.

_John Freeman_

John Freeman, born in 1885, has published several volumes of pleasantly descriptive verse. The two most distinctive are _Stone Trees_ (1916) and _Memories of Childhood_ (1919).

STONE TREES

Last night a sword-light in the sky Flashed a swift terror on the dark.

In that sharp light the fields did lie Naked and stone-like; each tree stood Like a tranced woman, bound and stark.

Far off the wood With darkness ridged the riven dark.

And cows astonished stared with fear, And sheep crept to the knees of cows, And conies to their burrows slid, And rooks were still in rigid boughs, And all things else were still or hid.

From all the wood Came but the owl's hoot, ghostly, clear.

In that cold trance the earth was held It seemed an age, or time was nought.

Sure never from that stone-like field Sprang golden corn, nor from those chill Grey granite trees was music wrought.

In all the wood Even the tall poplar hung stone still.

It seemed an age, or time was none ...

Slowly the earth heaved out of sleep And s.h.i.+vered, and the trees of stone Bent and sighed in the gusty wind, And rain swept as birds flocking sweep.

Far off the wood Rolled the slow thunders on the wind.