Classic and Contemporary Poetry
SCENT OF IRISES, by DAVID HERBERT LAWRENCE Poet Analysis Poet's Biography First Line: A faint, sickening scent of irises Last Line: Forget each other and the bruise of our bodies' clash.] Alternate Author Name(s): Lawrence, D. H. Subject(s): Iris (flower); Smells; Odors; Aromas; Fragrances | ||||||||
A FAINT, sickening scent of irises Persists all morning. Here in a jar on the table A fine proud spike of purple irises Rising above the class-room litter, makes me unable To see the class's lifted and bended faces Save in a broken pattern, amid purple and gold and sable. I can smell the gorgeous bog-end, in its breathless Dazzle of may-blobs, when the marigold glare overcast you With fire on your cheeks and your brow and your chin as you dipped Your face in the marigold bunch, to touch and contrast you, Your own dark mouth with the bridal faint lady-smocks, Dissolved on the golden sorcery you should not outlast. You amid the bog-end's yellow incantation, You sitting in the cowslips of the meadow above, Me, your shadow on the bog-flame, flowery may-blobs, Me full length in the cowslips, muttering you love; You, your soul like a lady-smock, lost, evanescent, You with your face all rich, like the sheen of a dove. You are always asking, do I remember, remember The butter-cup bog-end where the flowers rose up And kindled you over deep with a cast of gold? You ask again, do the healing days close up The open darkness which then drew us in, The dark which then drank up our brimming cup. You upon the dry, dead beech-leaves, in the fire of night Burnt like a sacrifice; you invisible; Only the fire of darkness, and the scent of you! -- And yes, thank God, it still is possible The healing days shall close the darkness up Wherein we fainted like a smoke or dew. Like vapour, dew, or poison. Now, thank God, The fire of night is gone, and your face is ash Indistinguishable on the grey, chill day; The night had burst us out, at last the good Dark fire burns on untroubled, without clash Of you upon the dead leaves saying me Yea. [or, Like vapour, dew of poison! Now, thank God The last year's fire is gone, and your face is ash; And the gulf that came between you, woman, and me, man, That day is half grown over, it need not abash Either of us any more; henceforth we can Forget each other and the bruise of our bodies' clash.] | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...FRAGRANT HANDS by FAIZ AHMED FAIZ A BREAD AND BUTTER LETTER by KENNETH REXROTH THE PRODIGAL by ELIZABETH BISHOP COLOGNE; EPIGRAM by SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE AMORETTI: 64 by EDMUND SPENSER THE LADY'S DRESSING ROOM by JONATHAN SWIFT A BABY ASLEEP AFTER PAIN by DAVID HERBERT LAWRENCE |
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