poem index

sign up to receive a new poem-a-day in your inbox

occasions

About this Poem 

“Winter-Lull” was published in Bay (Beaumont Press, 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 together, men and the snowy ground
                 Into nullity.
There is silence, only the silence, never a sound
                 Nor a verity
To assist us; disastrously silence-bound!

This poem is in the public domain. Published in Poem-a-Day on January 13, 2019, by the Academy of American Poets.

This poem is in the public domain. Published in Poem-a-Day on January 13, 2019, by the Academy of American Poets.

D. H. Lawrence

D. H. Lawrence

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.

by this poet

poem
They say the sea is cold, but the sea contains
the hottest blood of all, and the wildest, the most urgent.

All the whales in the wider deeps, hot are they, as they urge
on and on, and dive beneath the icebergs.
The right whales, the sperm-whales, the hammer-heads, the killers
there they blow, there they blow,
poem
You know what it is to be born alone,
Baby tortoise!

The first day to heave your feet little by little from
   the shell,
Not yet awake,
And remain lapsed on earth, 
Not quite alive.

A tiny, fragile, half-animate bean.

To open your tiny beak-mouth, that looks as if it would
   never open
Like some iron door;
poem
The elephant, the huge old beast,
     is slow to mate;
he finds a female, they show no haste
     they wait

for the sympathy in their vast shy hearts
     slowly, slowly to rouse
as they loiter along the river-beds
     and drink and browse

and dash in panic through the brake
     of forest with the herd,
and