Next Morning by D.H. Lawrence — Read

How have I wandered here to this vaulted room / In the house of life?--the floor was ruffled with gold / Last evening, and she who was softly in bloom, / Glimmered as flowers that in perfume at twilight unfold

For the flush of the night; whereas now the gloom / Of every dirty, must-besprinkled mould, / And damp old web of misery's heirloom / Deadens this day's grey-dropping arras-fold.

And what is this that floats on the undermist / Of the mirror towards the dusty grate, as if feeling / Unsightly its way to the warmth?--this thing with a list / To the left? this ghost like a candle swealing?

Pale-blurred, with two round black drops, as if it missed / Itself among everything else, here hungrily stealing / Upon me!--my own reflection!--explicit gist / Of my presence there in the mirror that leans from the ceiling!

Then will somebody square this shade with the being I know / I was last night, when my soul rang clear as a bell / And happy as rain in summer? Why should it be so? / What is there gone against me, why am I in hell?