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

38. Heimweh

FAR-OFF the lily-statues stand white-ranked in the garden at home.

Would God they were shattered quickly, the cattle would tread them out in the loam.

I wish the elder trees in flower could suddenly heave, and burst

The walls of the house, and nettles puff out from the hearth at which I was nursed.

It stands so still in the hush composed of trees and inviolate peace,

The home of my fathers, the place that is mine, my fate and my old increase.

And now that the skies are falling, the world is spouting in fountains of dirt,

I would give my soul for the homestead to fall with me, go with me, both in one hurt.