Dog-Tired
D. H. Lawrence
1885 to 1930
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If she would come to me here,
Now the swaths
Are glittering paths
To the sun, and the cut clear
Into the low sun—if she came to here!
If she would come to me now,
Before last mown harebells are dead,
While that vetch clump burns red;
Before all the bats have dropped from bough
Into the cool of night—if she came to now!
The horses are untackled, the chattering machine
Is at last. If she would come,
I would gather the warm hay from
The hill-brow, and lie in lap till the green
Sky ceased to quiver, and its tired sheen.
I should like to drop
On hay, with my head on her knee
And lie still, while she
Breathed quiet above me—we could stop
the stars came out to see.
I should like lie still
As if I was dead—but feeling
Her go stealing
Over my face and my hair until
ache was shed.