Explore "Last Hours" by D.H. Lawrence on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
THE cool of an oak's unchequered shade / Falls on me as I lie in deep grass / Which rushes upward, blade beyond blade, / While higher the darting grass-flowers pass / Piercing the blue with their crocketed spires / And waving flags, and the ragged fires / Of the sorrel's cresset -- a green, brave town / Vegetable, new in renown.
Over the tree's edge, as over a mountain / Surges the white of the moon, / A cloud comes up like the surge of a fountain, / Pressing round and low at first, but soon / Heaving and piling a round white dome. / How lovely it is to be at home / Like an insect in the grass / Letting life pass.
There's a scent of clover crept through my hair / From the full resource of some purple dome / Where that lumbering bee, who can hardly bear / His burden above me, never has clomb. / But not even the scent of insouciant flowers / Makes pause the hours.
Down the valley roars a townward train. / I hear it through the grass / Dragging the links of my shortening chain / Southwards, alas!