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Poem by David Herbert Lawrence


Sorrow


Why does the thin grey strand
Floating up from the forgotten
Cigarette between my fingers,
Why does it trouble me?

Ah, you will understand;
When I carried my mother downstairs,
A few times only, at the beginning
Of her soft-foot malady,

I should find, for a reprimand
To my gaiety, a few long grey hairs
On the breast of my coat; and one by one
I let them float up the dark chimney. 



David Herbert Lawrence


David Herbert Lawrence's other poems:
  1. Discipline
  2. The Mosquito
  3. Bat
  4. How Beastly the Bourgeois Is
  5. Meeting among the Mountains


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