The moon is broken in twain, and half a moon <br />Before me lies on the still, pale floor of the sky; <br />The other half of the broken coin of troth <br />Is buried away in the dark, where the still dead lie. <br />They buried her half in the grave when they laid her away; <br />I had pushed it gently in among the thick of her hair <br />Where it gathered towards the plait, on that very last day; <br />And like a moon in secret it is shining there. <br /> <br />My half shines in the sky, for a general sign <br />Of the troth with the dead I pledged myself to keep; <br />Turning its broken edge to the dark, it shines indeed <br />Like the sign of a lover who turns to the dark of sleep. <br />Against my heart the inviolate sleep breaks still <br />In darkened waves whose breaking echoes o’er <br />The wondering world of my wakeful day, till I’m lost <br />In the midst of the places I knew so well before.<br /><br />David Herbert Lawrence<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/troth-with-the-dead-2/
