D.H. Lawrence (1885–1930). New Poems. 1916.
7. Flat Suburbs, S.W., in the Morning
T
In level rows
Of reddish herbage that bristles and slants
Its square shadows.
Flatly assuming the sun,
And one side shadow, half in sight,
Half-hiding the pavement-run;
On their level way,
Threading like ants that can never relent
And have nothing to say.
At random, desolate twigs,
To testify to a blight on the land
That has stripped their sprigs.