D.H. Lawrence (1885–1930). New Poems. 1916.
9. Letter from Town: On a Grey Evening in March
T
While north of them all, at the farthest ends, stands one bright-bosomed, aglance
With fire as it guards the wild north cloud-coasts, red-fire seas running through
The rocks where ravens flying to windward melt as a well-shot lance.
Or there in the woods of the twilight, with northern wind-flowers shaken astir.
Think of me here in the library, trying and trying a song that is worth
Tears and swords to my heart, arrows no armour will turn or deter.
Of the dark-green hills; new calves in shed; peewits turn after the plough—
It is well for you. For me the navvies work in the road where I pass
And I want to smite in anger the barren rock of each waterless brow.
A sudden car goes sweeping past, and I strain my soul to hear
The voice of the furtive triumphant engine as it rushes past like a breeze,
To hear on its mocking triumphance unwitting the after-echo of fear.