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D.H. Lawrence (1885–1930). Amores. 1916.

34. Silence

SINCE I lost you I am silence-haunted,

Sounds wave their little wings

A moment, then in weariness settle

On the flood that soundless swings.

Whether the people in the street

Like pattering ripples go by,

Or whether the theatre sighs and sighs

With a loud, hoarse sigh:

Or the wind shakes a ravel of light

Over the dead-black river,

Or night’s last echoing

Makes the daybreak shiver:

I feel the silence waiting

To take them all up again

In its vast completeness, enfolding

The sound of men.