The Punisher by D.H. Lawrence — Read

I HAVE fetched the tears up out of the little wells,

Scooped them up with small, iron words,

Dripping over the runnels.

The harsh, cold wind of my words drove on, and still

I watched the tears on the guilty cheek of the boys

Glitter and spill.

Cringing Pity, and Love, white-handed, came

Hovering about the Judgment which stood in my

eyes,

Whirling a flame.

The tears are dry, and the cheeks' young fruits are

fresh

With laughter, and clear the exonerated eyes, since

pain

Beat through the flesh.

The Angel of Judgment has departed again to the

Nearness.

Desolate I am as a church whose lights are put out.

And night enters in drearness.

The fire rose up in the bush and blazed apace,