Under the oak

by D. H. Lawrence

　　

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You, if you were sensible,When I tell you the stars flash signals, each one dreadful,You would not turn and answer me"The night is wonderful."Even you, if you knewHow this darkness soaks me through and through, and infusesUnholy fear in my vapour, you would pause to dis- tinguishWhat hurts, from what amuses.For I tell youBeneath this powerful tree, my whole soul's fluidOozes away from me as a sacrifice steamAt the knife of a Druid.Again I tell you, I bleed, I am bound with withies,My life runs out.I tell you my blood runs out on the floor of this oak,Gout upon gout.Above me springs the blood-born mistletoeIn the shady smoke.But who are you, twittering to and froBeneath the oak?What thing better are you, what worse?What have you to do with the mysteriesOf this ancient place, of my ancient curse?What place have you in my histories?

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