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    Amores: “Instead of chopping yourself down to fit the world, chop the world down to fit yourself. ”
    Amores: “Instead of chopping yourself down to fit the world, chop the world down to fit yourself. ”
    Amores: “Instead of chopping yourself down to fit the world, chop the world down to fit yourself. ”
    Ebook86 pages54 minutes

    Amores: “Instead of chopping yourself down to fit the world, chop the world down to fit yourself. ”

    By D. H. Lawrence

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    About this ebook

    For many of us DH Lawrence was a schoolboy hero. Who can forget sniggering in class at the mention of ‘Women In Love’ or ‘Lady Chatterley’s Lover’? Lawrence was a talented if nomadic writer whose novels were passionately received, suppressed at times and generally at odds with Establishment values. This of course did not deter him. At his death in 1930 at the young age of 44 he was more often thought of as a pornographer but in the ensuing years he has come to be more rightly regarded as one of the most imaginative writers these shores have produced. As well as his novels he was also a masterful poet (he wrote over 800 of them), a travel writer as well as an author of many classic short stories. Here we publish his poetry collection ‘Amores’. Once again Lawrence shows his hand as a brilliant writer. Delving into situations and peeling them back to reveal the inner heart.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherCopyright Group
    Release dateSep 12, 2014
    ISBN9781783941391
    Amores: “Instead of chopping yourself down to fit the world, chop the world down to fit yourself. ”
    Author

    D. H. Lawrence

    David Herbert Lawrence was born on 11th September 1881 in Eastwood, a small mining village in Nottinghamshire, in the English Midlands. Despite ill health as a child and a comparatively disadvantageous position in society, he became a teacher in 1908, and took up a post in a school in Croydon, south of London. His first novel, The White Peacock, was published in 1911, and from then until his death he wrote feverishly, producing poetry, novels, essays, plays travel books and short stories, while travelling around the world, settling for periods in Italy, New Mexico and Mexico. He married Frieda Weekley in 1914 and died of tuberculosis in 1930.

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      Book preview

      Amores - D. H. Lawrence

      D H Lawrence - Amores

      For many of us DH Lawrence was a schoolboy hero. Who can forget sniggering in class at the mention of ‘Women In Love’ or ‘Lady Chatterley’s Lover’?   Lawrence was a talented if nomadic writer whose novels were passionately received, suppressed at times and generally at odds with Establishment values.  This of course did not deter him.  

      At his death in 1930 at the young age of 44 he was more often thought of as a pornographer but in the ensuing years he has come to be more rightly regarded as one of the most imaginative writers these shores have produced. 

      As well as his novels he was also a masterful poet (he wrote over 800 of them), a travel writer as well as an author of many classic short stories. 

      Here we publish his poetry collection ‘Amores’. Once again Lawrence shows his hand as a brilliant writer. Delving into situations and peeling them back to reveal the inner heart.

      Index Of Contents

      Tease

      The Wild Common

      Study

      Discord in Childhood

      Virgin Youth

      Monologue of a Mother

      In a Boat

      Week-night Service

      Irony

      Dreams Old

      Dreams Nascent

      A Winter's Tale

      Epilogue

      A Baby Running Barefoot

      Discipline

      Scent of Irises

      The Prophet

      Last Words to Miriam

      Mystery

      Patience

      Ballad of Another Ophelia

      Restlessness

      A Baby Asleep After Pain

      Anxiety

      The Punisher

      The End

      The Bride

      The Virgin Mother

      At the Window

      Drunk

      Sorrow

      Dolor of Autumn

      The Inheritance

      Silence

      Listening

      Brooding Grief

      Lotus Hurt by the Cold

      Malade

      Liaison

      Troth with the Dead

      Dissolute

      Submergence

      The Enkindled Spring

      Reproach

      The Hands of the Betrothed

      Excursion

      Perfidy

      A Spiritual Woman

      Mating

      A Love Song

      Brother and Sister

      After Many Days

      Blue

      Snap-Dragon

      A Passing Bell

      In Trouble and Shame

      Elegy

      Grey Evening

      Firelight and Nightfall

      The Mystic Blue

      DH Lawrence – A Short Biography

      DH Lawrence – A Concise Bibliography

      TEASE

      I will give you all my keys,

      You shall be my châtelaine,

      You shall enter as you please,

      As you please shall go again.

      When I hear you jingling through

      All the chambers of my soul,

      How I sit and laugh at you

      In your vain housekeeping rôle.

      Jealous of the smallest cover,

      Angry at the simplest door;

      Well, you anxious, inquisitive lover,

      Are you pleased with what's in store?

      You have fingered all my treasures,

      Have you not, most curiously,

      Handled all my tools and measures

      And masculine machinery?

      Over every single beauty

      You have had your little rapture;

      You have slain, as was your duty,

      Every sin-mouse you could capture.

      Still you are not satisfied,

      Still you tremble faint reproach;

      Challenge me I keep aside

      Secrets that you may not broach.

      Maybe yes, and maybe no,

      Maybe there are secret places,

      Altars barbarous below,

      Elsewhere halls of high disgraces.

      Maybe yes, and maybe no,

      You may have it as you please,

      Since I choose to keep you so,

      Suppliant on your curious knees.

      THE WILD COMMON

      The quick sparks on the gorse bushes are leaping,

      Little jets of sunlight-texture imitating flame;

      Above them, exultant, the pee-wits are sweeping:

      They are lords of the desolate wastes of sadness

      their screamings proclaim.

      Rabbits, handfuls of brown earth, lie

      Low-rounded on the mournful grass they have bitten

      down to the quick.

      Are they asleep? Are they alive? Now see,

      when I

      Move my arms the hill bursts and heaves under their

      spurting kick.

      The common flaunts bravely; but below, from the

      rushes

      Crowds of glittering king-cups surge to challenge the

      blossoming bushes;

      There the lazy streamlet pushes

      Its curious course mildly; here it wakes again, leaps,

      laughs, and gushes.

      Into a deep pond, an old sheep-dip,

      Dark, overgrown with willows, cool, with the brook

      ebbing through so slow,

      Naked on the steep, soft lip

      Of the bank I stand watching my own white shadow

      quivering to and fro.

      What if the gorse flowers shrivelled and kissing were

      lost?

      Without the pulsing waters, where were the marigolds

      and the songs of the brook?

      If my veins and my breasts with love embossed

      Withered, my insolent soul would be gone like flowers

      that the hot wind took.

      So my soul like a passionate woman turns,

      Filled with remorseful terror to the man she scorned,

      and her love

      For myself in my own eyes' laughter burns,

      Runs ecstatic over the pliant folds rippling down to

      my belly from the breast-lights above.

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