D.H. Lawrence (1885–1930). New Poems. 1916.

23. Phantasmagoria

RIGID sleeps the house in darkness, I alone

Like a thing unwarrantable cross the hall

And climb the stairs to find the group of doors

Standing angel-stern and tall.

I want my own room’s shelter. But what is this

Throng of startled beings suddenly thrown

In confusion against my entry? Is it only the trees’

Large shadows from the outside street lamp blown?

Phantom to phantom leaning; strange women weep

Aloud, suddenly on my mind

Startling a fear unspeakable, as the shuddering wind

Breaks and sobs in the blind.

So like to women, tall strange women weeping!

Why continually do they cross the bed?

Why does my soul contract with unnatural fear?

I am listening! Is anything said?

Ever the long black figures swoop by the bed;

They seem to be beckoning, rushing away, and beckoning.

Whither then, whither, what is it, say

What is the reckoning.

Tall black Bacchae of midnight, why then, why

Do you rush to assail me?

Do I intrude on your rites nocturnal?

What should it avail me?

Is there some great Iacchos of these slopes

Suburban dismal?

Have I profaned some female mystery, orgies

Black and phantasmal?