Somewhere the long mellow note of the blackbird <br />Quickens the unclasping hands of hazel, <br />Somewhere the wind-flowers fling their heads back, <br />Stirred by an impetuous wind. Some ways’ll <br />All be sweet with white and blue violet. <br />(Hush now, hush. Where am I?—Biuret—) <br /> <br />On the green wood’s edge a shy girl hovers <br />From out of the hazel-screen on to the grass, <br />Where wheeling and screaming the petulant plovers <br />Wave frighted. Who comes? A labourer, alas! <br />Oh the sunset swims in her eyes’ swift pool. <br />(Work, work, you fool——!) <br /> <br />Somewhere the lamp hanging low from the ceiling <br />Lights the soft hair of a girl as she reads, <br />And the red firelight steadily wheeling <br />Weaves the hard hands of my friend in sleep. <br />And the white dog snuffs the warmth, appealing <br />For the man to heed lest the girl shall weep. <br />(Tears and dreams for them; for me <br /> Bitter science—the exams are near. <br /> I wish I bore it more patiently. <br /> I wish you did not wait, my dear, <br /> For me to come: since work I must: <br /> Though it’s all the same when we are dead.— <br /> I wish I was only a bust, <br /> All head.)<br /><br />David Herbert Lawrence<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/study-2/
