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

39. Liaison

A BIG bud of moon hangs out of the twilight,

Star-spiders spinning their thread

Hang high suspended, withouten respite

Watching us overhead.

Come then under the trees, where the leaf-cloths

Curtain us in so dark

That here we’re safe from even the ermin-moth’s

Flitting remark.

Here in this swarthy, secret tent,

Where black boughs flap the ground,

You shall draw the thorn from my discontent,

Surgeon me sound.

This rare, rich night! For in here

Under the yew-tree tent

The darkness is loveliest where I could sear

You like frankincense into scent.

Here not even the stars can spy us,

Not even the white moths write

With their little pale signs on the wall, to try us

And set us affright.

Kiss but then the dust from off my lips,

But draw the turgid pain

From my breast to your bosom, eclipse

My soul again.

Waste me not, I beg you, waste

Not the inner night:

Taste, oh taste and let me taste

The core of delight.