D.H. Lawrence (1885–1930). Amores. 1916.
36. Brooding Grief
A
Hops like a frog before me.
Why should I start and stand still?
Stretched in the brindled darkness
Of the sick-room, rigid with will
To die: and the quick leaf tore me
Back to this rainy swill
Of leaves and lamps and traffic mingled before me.