PURPLE ANEMONES

_Who gave us flowers?_

_Heaven? The white God?_

Nonsense!

Up out of hell,

From Hades;

Infernal Dis!

_Jesus the god of flowers----?_

Not he.

_Or sun-bright Apollo, him so musical?_

Him neither.

_Who then?_

_Say who._

Say it--and it is Pluto,

Dis,

The dark one,

Proserpine’s master.

_Who contradicts----?_

When she broke forth from below,

Flowers came, hell-hounds on her heels.

Dis, the dark, the jealous god, the husband,

Flower-sumptuous-blooded.

_Go then_, he said.

And in Sicily, on the meadows of Enna,

She thought she had left him;

But opened around her purple anemones,

Caverns,

Little hells of colour, caves of darkness,

Hell, risen in pursuit of her; royal, sumptuous

Pit-falls.

All at her feet

Hell opening;

At her white ankles

Hell rearing its husband-splendid, serpent heads,

Hell-purple, to get at her--

_Why did he let her go?_

So he could track her down again, white victim.

Ah mastery!

Hell’s husband-blossoms

Out on earth again.

Look out, Persephone!

You, Madame Ceres, mind yourself, the enemy is upon you.

About your feet spontaneous aconite,

Hell-glamorous, and purple husband-tyranny

Enveloping your late-enfranchised plains.

You thought your daughter had escaped?

No more stockings to darn for the flower-roots, down in hell?

But ah my dear!

Aha, the stripe-cheeked whelps, whippet-slim crocuses,

_At ’em, boys, at ’em!_

_Ho golden-spaniel, sweet alert narcissus,_

_Smell ’em, smell ’em out!_

Those two enfranchised women.

Somebody is coming!

_Oho there!_

Dark blue anemones!

Hell is up!

Hell on earth, and Dis within the depths!

_Run, Persephone, he is after you already._

_Why did he let her go?_

To track her down;

All the sport of summer and spring, and flowers

snapping at her ankles and catching her by the hair!

Poor Persephone and her rights for women.

_Husband-snared hell-queen,_

_It is spring._

It is spring,

And pomp of husband-strategy on earth.

_Ceres, kiss your girl, you think you’ve got her back._

_The bit of husband-tilth she is,_

_Persephone!_

Poor mothers-in-law!

They are always sold.

It is spring.

_Taormina._

Birds, Beasts and Flowers Poems by D. H. Lawrence · 第 27 / 67 题