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. 

1. Week-Night Service
2. Meeting among the Mountains
3. Perfidy
4. Giorno Dei Morti
5. Submergence

Edna Millay Sorrow ("Sorrow like a ceaseless rain")

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