Sunday Poetry: The Inheritance

"Poetry is truth in its Sunday clothes." ~Joseph Roux

The Inheritance

D.H. Lawrence

SINCE you did depart

Out of my reach, my darling,

Into the hidden,

I see each shadow start

With recognition, and I

Am wonder-ridden.

I am dazed with the farewell,

But I scarcely feel your loss.

You left me a gift

Of tongues, so the shadows tell

Me things, and silences toss

Me their drift.

You sent me a cloven fire

Out of death, and it burns in the draught

Of the breathing hosts,

Kindles the darkening pyre

For the sorrowful, till strange brands waft

Like candid ghosts.

Form after form, in the streets

Waves like a ghost along,

Kindled to me;

The star above the house-top greets

Me every eve with a long

Song fierily.

All day long, the town

Glimmers with subtle ghosts

Going up and down

In a common, prison-like dress;

But their daunted looking flickers

To me, and I answer, Yes!

So I am not lonely nor sad

Although bereaved of you,

My little love.

I move among a kinsfolk clad

With words, but the dream shows through

As they move.