Conscientious objector

the sun is bleeding its fires upon the mist that huddles in gray heaps coiling and holding back like cliffs abutting in shadow a drear gray sea some street-ends thrust forward their stack On the misty wastelands, away from the fleshing grey of the morning, the elms are loftily dimmed, and tall as if moving in air towards us, tall angels of darkness advancing steadily over us all.

Rondo of a Conscientious Objector By D. H. Lawrence Read for LibriVox.org the hours have tumbled their leaden monotonous sands and piled them up in a dull gray heap in the west i carry my patience sullenly through the waste lands to-morrow will pour them all back the dull hours i detest i force my cart through the sodden filth that is pressed into ooze and the sombre dirt spouts up at my hands as i make my way in twilight now to rest the hours have tumbled their leaden monotonous sands a twisted thorn-tree still in the evening stands defending the memory of leaves and the happy round nest but mud has flooded the homes of these weary lands and piled them up in a dull gray heap in the west all day has the clank of iron on iron distressed the nerve bare place now a little silence expands and a gasp of relief but the soul is still compressed i carry my patience sullenly through the waste lands The hours have ceased to fall, And a star commands shadows To cover our stricken manhood, And blessed sleep to make us forget.

But he understands.

Tomorrow will pour them all back, The dull hours I detest.

the sun is bleeding its fires upon the mist that huddles in gray heaps coiling and holding back like cliffs abutting in shadow a drear gray sea some street-ends thrust forward their stack On the misty wastelands, away from the fleshing grey of the morning, the elms are loftily dimmed, and tall as if moving in air towards us, tall angels of darkness advancing steadily over us all.

Rondo of a Conscientious Objector By D. H. Lawrence Read for LibriVox.org the hours have tumbled their leaden monotonous sands and piled them up in a dull gray heap in the west i carry my patience sullenly through the waste lands to-morrow will pour them all back the dull hours i detest i force my cart through the sodden filth that is pressed into ooze and the sombre dirt spouts up at my hands as i make my way in twilight now to rest the hours have tumbled their leaden monotonous sands a twisted thorn-tree still in the evening stands defending the memory of leaves and the happy round nest but mud has flooded the homes of these weary lands and piled them up in a dull gray heap in the west all day has the clank of iron on iron distressed the nerve bare place now a little silence expands and a gasp of relief but the soul is still compressed i carry my patience sullenly through the waste lands The hours have ceased to fall, And a star commands shadows To cover our stricken manhood, And blessed sleep to make us forget.

But he understands.

Tomorrow will pour them all back, The dull hours I detest.

so you are lost to me ah you you ear of corn straight lying what food is this for the darkly flying fowls of the afterwards white bread afloat on the waters cast out by the hand that scatters food untowards will you come back when the tide turns after many days my heart yearns to know will you return after many days to say your say as a traveller says more marvel than woe drift then for the sightless birds and the fish in shadow waved herds to approach you drift then bread cast out drift lest i fall in doubt and reproach you for you are lost to me RUINATION by D. H. Lawrence the sun is bleeding its fires upon the mist that huddles in gray heaps coiling and holding back like cliffs abutting in shadow a drear gray sea some street-ends thrust forward their stack On the misty wastelands, away from the fleshing grey of the morning, the elms are loftily dimmed, and tall as if moving in air towards us, tall angels of darkness advancing steadily over us all.

Rondo of a Conscientious Objector by D. H. Lawrence read for LibriVox.org the hours have tumbled their leaden monotonous sands and piled them up in a dull gray heap in the west i carry my patience sullenly through the waste lands to-morrow will pour them all back the dull hours i detest i force my cart through the sodden filth that is pressed into ooze and the sombre dirt spouts up at my hands as i make my way in twilight now to rest the hours have tumbled their leaden monotonous sands a twisted thorn-tree still in the evening stands defending the memory of leaves and the happy round nest but mud has flooded the homes of these weary lands and piled them up in a dull gray heap in the west all day has the clank of iron on iron distressed the nerve bare place now a little silence expands and a gasp of relief but the soul is still compressed i carry my patience sullenly through the waste lands The hours have ceased to fall, And a star commands shadows To cover our stricken manhood, And blessed sleep to make us forget.

But he understands.

Tomorrow will pour them all back, The dull hours I detest.

the sun is bleeding its fires upon the mist that huddles in gray heaps coiling and holding back like cliffs abutting in shadow a drear gray sea some street-hens thrust forward their stack On the misty wastelands, away from the fleshing grey of the morning, the elms are loftily dimmed, and tall as if moving in air towards us, tall angels of darkness advancing steadily over us all.

Rondo of a Conscientious Objector By D. H. Lawrence Read for LibriVox.org the hours have tumbled their leaden monotonous sands and piled them up in a dull gray heap in the west i carry my patience sullenly through the waste lands to-morrow will pour them all back the dull hours i detest i force my cart through the sodden filth that is pressed into ooze and the sombre dirt spouts up at my hands as i make my way in twilight now to rest the hours have tumbled their leaden monotonous sands a twisted thorn-tree still in the evening stands defending the memory of leaves and the happy round nest but mud has flooded the homes of these weary lands and piled them up in a dull gray heap in the west all day has the clank of iron on iron distressed the nerve bare place now a little silence expands and a gasp of relief but the soul is still compressed i carry my patience sullenly through the waste lands The hours have ceased to fall, and a star commands shadows to cover our stricken manhood, and blessed sleep to make us forget.

But he understands.

Tomorrow will pour them all back, the dull hours.