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A Baby Asleep After Pain

1885 –

1930

   As a drenched, drowned bee
Hangs numb and heavy from a bending flower,
   So clings to me
My baby, her brown hair brushed with wet tears
   And laid against her cheek;
Her soft white legs hanging heavily over my arm,
Swinging heavily to my movement as I walk.
   My sleeping baby hangs upon my life,
Like a burden she hangs on me.
   She has always seemed so light,
But now she is wet with tears and numb with pain
Even her floating hair sinks heavily,
   Reaching downwards;
As the wings of a drenched, drowned bee
   Are a heaviness, and a weariness.

This poem is in the public domain.

David Herbert Lawrence, novelist, short-story writer, poet, and essayist, was born in Eastwood, Nottinghamshire, England, on September 11, 1885. Though better known as a novelist, Lawrence's first-published works (in 1909) were poems, and his poetry, especially his evocations of the natural world, have since had a significant influence on many poets on both sides of the Atlantic.

Themes

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More by this poet

Pentecostal

Shall I tell you, then, how it is?

There came a cloven gleam,
Like a tongue of darkened flame,
To burn in me.

And so I seem
To have you still the same
In one world with me.

D. H. Lawrence

1919

Winter-Lull

Because of the silent snow, we are all hushed
                 Into awe.
No sound of guns, nor overhead no rushed
                 Vibration to draw
Our attention out of the void wherein we are crushed.

A crow floats past on level wings
                 Noiselessly.
Uninterrupted silence swings
                 Invisibly, inaudibly 
To and fro in our misgivings.

We do not look at each other, we hide
                 Our daunted eyes.
White earth, and ruins, ourselves, and nothing beside.
                 It all belies
Our existence; we wait, and are still denied.

We are folded togethe

D. H. Lawrence

1919

Snake

A snake came to my water-trough
On a hot, hot day, and I in pyjamas for the heat,
To drink there.

In the deep, strange-scented shade of the great dark carob tree
I came down the steps with my pitcher
And must wait, must stand and wait, for there he was at the trough before me.

D. H. Lawrence

Poems

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A Baby Asleep After Pain

More by this poet

Pentecostal

Winter-Lull

Snake

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