THE HANDS OF THE BETROTHED
by: D.H. Lawrence (1885-1930)
- ER tawny eyes are onyx of thoughtlessness,
- Hardened they are like gems in ancient modesty;
- Yea, and her mouths prudent and crude caress
- Means even less than her many words to me.
-
- Though her kiss betrays me also this, this only
- Consolation, that in her lips her blood at climax clips
- Two wild, dumb paws in anguish on the lonely
- Fruit of my heart, ere down, rebuked, it slips.
-
- I know from her hardened lips that still her heart is
- Hungry for me, yet if I put my hand in her breast
- She puts me away, like a saleswoman whose mart is
- Endangered by the pilferer on his quest.
-
- But her hands are still the woman, the large, strong hands
- Heavier than mine, yet like leverets caught in steel
- When I hold them; my still soul understands
- Their dumb confession of what her sort must feel.
-
- For never her hands come nigh me but they lift
- Like heavy birds from the morning stubble, to settle
- Upon me like sleeping birds, like birds that shift
- Uneasily in their sleep, disturbing my mettle.
-
- How caressingly she lays her hand on my knee,
- How strangely she tries to disown it, as it sinks
- In my flesh and bone and forages into me,
- How it stirs like a subtle stoat, whatever she thinks!
-
- And often I see her clench her fingers tight
- And thrust her fists suppressed in the folds of her skirt;
- And sometimes, how she grasps her arms with her bright
- Big hands, as if surely her arms did hurt.
-
- And I have seen her stand all unaware
- Pressing her spread hands over her breasts, as she
- Would crush their mounds on her heart, to kill in there
- The pain that is her simple ache for me.
-
- Her strong hands take my part, the part of a man
- To her; she crushes them into her bosom deep
- Where I should lie, and with her own strong span
- Closes her arms, that should fold me in sleep.
-
- Ah, and she puts her hands upon the wall,
- Presses them there, and kisses her bright hands,
- Then lets her black hair loose, the darkness fall
- About her from her maiden-folded bands.
-
- And sits in her own dark night of her bitter hair
- Dreaming--God knows of what, for to me shes the same
- Betrothed young lady who loves me, and takes care
- Of her womanly virtue and of my good name.
"The Hands of the Betrothed"
is reprinted from Amores: Poems. D.H. Lawrence. New York:
B.W. Huebsch, 1916. |
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POEMS BY D.H. LAWRENCE |
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