Mystery

Now I am all
One bowl of kisses,
Such as the tall
Slim votaresses
Of Egypt filled
For a God's excesses.

I lift to you
My bowl of kisses,
And through the temple's
Blue recesses
Cry out to you
In wild caresses.

And to my lips'
Bright crimson rim
The passion slips,
And down my slim
White body drips
The shining hymn.

And still before
The altar I
Exult the bowl
Brimful, and cry
To you to stoop
And drink, Most High.

Oh drink me up
That I may be
Within your cup
Like a mystery,
Like wine that is still
In ecstasy.

Glimmering still
In ecstasy,
Commingled wines
Of you and me
In one fulfil
The mystery.

David Herbert Richards Lawrence

David Herbert Richards Lawrence was an English writer, poet, and essayist best known for his novels 'Sons and Lovers,' 'The Rainbow,' 'Women in Love,' and 'Lady Chatterley's Lover.' His works explore themes of emotional health, vitality, spontaneity, and instinct. Lawrence's opinions and artistic works earned him many enemies and he was frequently censored. Today, he is regarded as one of the most influential writers of the 20th century.

David Herbert Richards Lawrence

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David Herbert Richards Lawrence, Simple Poetry

English

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She bade me follow to her garden, where
The mellow sunlight stood as in a cup
Between the old grey walls; I did not dare
To raise my face, I did not dare look up,
Lest her bright eyes like sparrows should fly in
My windows of discovery, and shrill "Sin."

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I followed, followed the swing of her white dress
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The grass deep down with the royal burden of her:
And gladly I'd offered my breast to the tread of her.

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Don Juan

It is Isis the mystery
Must be in love with me.

Here this round ball of earth
Where all the mountains sit
Solemn in groups,
And the bright rivers flit
Round them for girth.

Here the trees and troops
Darken the shining grass,
And many people pass
Plundered from heaven,
Many bright people pass,
Plunder from heaven.

What of the mistresses
What the beloved seven?
- They were but witnesses,
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Isis the mystery
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Flash out a stream of blood-red wine,
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By nature's magic power is laid
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And drank the splendors of the sun,
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Is mirrored in the broad Garonne;
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That here we're safe from even the ermin-moth's
Flitting remark.

Here in this swarthy, secret tent,
Where black boughs flap the ground,
You shall draw the thorn from my discontent,
Surgeon me sound.

This rare, rich night! For in here
Under the yew-tree tent
The darkness is loveliest where I could sear
You like frankincense into scent.

Here not even the stars can spy us,
Not even the white moths write
With their little pale signs on the wall, to try us
And set us affright.

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David Herbert Richards Lawrence

The Mystery.

This is your cup, the cup assigned to you
From the beginning. Yea, my child, I know

How much of that dark drink is your own, brew
Of fault and passion. Ages long ago,

In the deep years of yesterday, I knew.

This is your road, a painful road and drear.

I made the stones, that never give you rest;
I set your friend in pleasant ways and clear.

And he shall come, like you, unto my breast;
But you, my weary child!, must travel here.

This is your work. It has no fame, no grace,
But is not meant for any other hand.

And in my universe hath measured place.
Take it; I do not bid you understand;

I bid you close your eyes, to see my face!

Margaret Steele Anderson