Sigh no more

by D. H. Lawrence

　　

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THE cuckoo and the coo-dove's ceaseless calling, Calling,Of a meaningless monotony is pallingAll my morning's pleasure in the sun-fleck-scattered wood.May-blossom and blue bird's-eye flowers falling, FallingIn a litter through the elm-tree shade are scrawlingMessages of true-love down the dust of the high- road.I do not like to hear the gentle grieving, GrievingOf the she-dove in the blossom, still believingLove will yet again return to her and make all good.When I know that there must ever be deceiving, DeceivingOf the mournful constant heart, that while she's weavingHer woes, her lover woos and sings within another wood.Oh, boisterous the cuckoo shouts, forestalling, StallingA progress down the intricate enthrallingBy-paths where the wanton-headed flowers doff their hood.And like a laughter leads me onward, heaving, HeavingA sigh among the shadows, thus retrievingA decent short regret for that which once was very good.

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