I have fetched the tears up out of the little wells, <br />Scooped them up with small, iron words, <br /> Dripping over the runnels. <br /> <br />The harsh, cold wind of my words drove on, and still <br />I watched the tears on the guilty cheek of the boys <br /> Glitter and spill. <br /> <br />Cringing Pity, and Love, white-handed, came <br />Hovering about the Judgment which stood in my eyes, <br /> Whirling a flame. <br /> <br /> . . . . . . . <br /> <br />The tears are dry, and the cheeks’ young fruits are fresh <br />With laughter, and clear the exonerated eyes, since pain <br /> Beat through the flesh. <br /> <br />The Angel of Judgment has departed again to the Nearness. <br />Desolate I am as a church whose lights are put out. <br /> And night enters in drearness. <br /> <br />The fire rose up in the bush and blazed apace, <br />The thorn-leaves crackled and twisted and sweated in anguish; <br /> Then God left the place. <br /> <br />Like a flower that the frost has hugged and let go, my head <br />Is heavy, and my heart beats slowly, laboriously, <br /> My strength is shed.<br /><br />David Herbert Lawrence<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-punisher-2/
