Mournfully to and fro, to and fro the trees are waving; <br />What did you say, my dear? <br />The rain-bruised leaves are suddenly shaken, as a child <br />Asleep still shakes in the clutch of a sob— <br />Yes, my love, I hear. <br /> <br />One lonely bell, one only, the storm-tossed afternoon is braving, <br />Why not let it ring? <br />The roses lean down when they hear it, the tender, mild <br />Flowers of the bleeding-heart fall to the throb— <br />It is such a little thing! <br /> <br />A wet bird walks on the lawn, call to the boy to come and look, <br />Yes, it is over now. <br />Call to him out of the silence, call him to see <br />The starling shaking its head as it walks in the grass— <br />Ah, who knows how? <br /> <br />He cannot see it, I can never show it him, how it shook— <br />Don’t disturb him, darling. <br />—Its head as it walked: I can never call him to me, <br />Never, he is not, whatever shall come to pass. <br />No, look at the wet starling.<br /><br />David Herbert Lawrence<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-passing-bell-2/
