In Church
D. H. Lawrence
In the choir the boys are singing the hymn.
The morning light on their lips
Moves in silver-moist flashes, in musical trim.
Sudden outside the high window, one crow
Hangs in the air
And lights on a withered oak-tree’s top of woe.
One bird, one blot, folded and still at the top
Of the withered tree!—in the grail
Of crystal heaven falls one full black drop.
Like a soft full drop of darkness it seems to sway
In the tender wine
Of our Sabbath, suffusing our sacred day.
Next 10 Poems
- D. H. Lawrence : In Trouble And Shame
- D. H. Lawrence : Intimates
- D. H. Lawrence : Intime
- D. H. Lawrence : Irony
- D. H. Lawrence : Last Words To Miriam
- D. H. Lawrence : Letter From Town: On A Grey Evening In March
- D. H. Lawrence : Letter From Town: The Almond Tree
- D. H. Lawrence : Liaison
- D. H. Lawrence : Lies About Love
- D. H. Lawrence : Listening
Previous 10 Poems
- D. H. Lawrence : In A Boat
- D. H. Lawrence : If You Are A Man
- D. H. Lawrence : Hyde Park At Night, Before The War
- D. H. Lawrence : How Beastly The Bourgeois Is
- D. H. Lawrence : Heimweh
- D. H. Lawrence : Grey Evening
- D. H. Lawrence : Green
- D. H. Lawrence : Gloire De Dijon
- D. H. Lawrence : Gipsy
- D. H. Lawrence : Giorno Dei Morti
