D.H. Lawrence (1885–1930). New Poems. 1916.

14. Under the Oak

YOU, if you were sensible,

When I tell you the stars flash signals, each one dreadful,

You would not turn and answer me

“The night is wonderful.”

Even you, if you knew

How this darkness soaks me through and through, and infuses

Unholy fear in my vapour, you would pause to distinguish

What hurts, from what amuses.

For I tell you

Beneath this powerful tree, my whole soul’s fluid

Oozes away from me as a sacrifice steam

At the knife of a Druid.

Again I tell you, I bleed, I am bound with withies,

My life runs out.

I tell you my blood runs out on the floor of this oak,

Gout upon gout.

Above me springs the blood-born mistletoe

In the shady smoke.

But who are you, twittering to and fro

Beneath the oak?

What thing better are you, what worse?

What have you to do with the mysteries

Of this ancient place, of my ancient curse?

What place have you in my histories?