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

29. Sickness

WAVING slowly before me, pushed into the dark,

Unseen my hands explore the silence, drawing the bark

Of my body slowly behind.

Nothing to meet my fingers but the fleece of night

Invisible blinding my face and my eyes! What if in their flight

My hands should touch the door!

What if I suddenly stumble, and push the door

Open, and a great grey dawn swirls over my feet, before

I can draw back!

What if unwitting I set the door of eternity wide

And am swept away in the horrible dawn, am gone down the tide

Of eternal hereafter!

Catch my hands, my darling, between your breasts.

Take them away from their venture, before fate wrests

The meaning out of them.