Yours is the shame and sorrow, <br /> But the disgrace is mine; <br /> Your love was dark and thorough, <br /> Mine was the love of the sun for a flower <br /> He creates with his shine. <br /> <br /> I was diligent to explore you, <br /> Blossom you stalk by stalk, <br /> Till my fire of creation bore you <br /> Shrivelling down in the final dour <br /> Anguish -- then I suffered a balk. <br /> <br /> I knew your pain, and it broke <br /> My fine, craftsman's nerve; <br /> Your body quailed at my stroke, <br /> And my courage failed to give you the last <br /> Fine torture you did deserve. <br /> <br /> You are shapely, you are adorned, <br /> But opaque and dull in the flesh, <br /> Who, had I but pierced with the thorned <br /> Fire-threshing anguish, were fused and cast <br /> In a lovely illumined mesh. <br /> <br /> Like a painted window: the best <br /> Suffering burnt through your flesh, <br /> Undrossed it and left it blest <br /> With a quivering sweet wisdom of grace: but now <br /> Who shall take you afresh? <br /> <br /> Now who will burn you free <br /> From your body's terrors and dross, <br /> Since the fire has failed in me? <br /> What man will stoop in your flesh to plough <br /> The shrieking cross? <br /> <br /> A mute, nearly beautiful thing <br /> Is your face, that fills me with shame <br /> As I see it hardening, <br /> Warping the perfect image of God, <br /> And darkening my eternal fame.<br /><br />David Herbert Lawrence<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/last-words-to-miriam-2/
