Читать книгу Birds, Beasts and Flowers - D. H. Lawrence - Страница 10

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Oh America

The sun sets in you.

Are you the grave of our day?

Shall I come to you, the open tomb of my race?

I would come, if I felt my hour had struck.

I would rather you came to me.

For that matter

Mahomet never went to any mountain

Save it had first approached him and cajoled his soul.

You have cajoled the souls of millions of us

America,

Why won’t you cajole my soul?

I wish you would.

I confess I am afraid of you.

The catastrophe of your exaggerate love,

You who never find yourself in love

But only lose yourself further, decomposing.

You who never recover from out of the orgasm of loving

Your pristine, isolate integrity, lost æons ago.

Your singleness within the universe.

You who in loving break down

And break further and further down

Your bounds of isolation,

But who never rise, resurrected, from this grave of mingling,

In a new proud singleness, America.

Your more-than-European idealism,

Like a be-aureoled bleached skeleton hovering

Its cage-ribs in the social heaven, beneficent.

And then your single resurrection

Into machine-uprisen perfect man.

Even the winged skeleton of your bleached ideal

Is not so frightening as that clean smooth

Automaton of your uprisen self,

Machine American.

Do you wonder that I am afraid to come

And answer the first machine-cut question from the lips of your iron men?

Put the first cents into metallic fingers of your officers

And sit beside the steel-straight arms of your fair women

American?

This may be a withering tree, this Europe,

But here, even a customs-official is still vulnerable.

I am so terrified, America,

Of the iron click of your human contact.

And after this

The winding-sheet of your self-less ideal love.

Boundless love

Like a poison gas.

Does no one realise that love should be intense, individual,

Not boundless.

This boundless love is like the bad smell

Of something gone wrong in the middle.

All this philanthropy and benevolence on other people’s behalf

Just a bad smell.

Yet, America,

Your elvishness,

Your New England uncanniness,

Your western brutal faery quality.

My soul is half-cajoled, half-cajoled.

Something in you which carries me beyond

Yankee, Yankee,

What we call human.

Carries me where I want to be carried ...

Or don’t I?

What does it matter

What we call human, and what we don’t call human?

The rose would smell as sweet.

And to be limited by a mere word is to be less than a hopping flea, which hops over such an obstruction at first jump.

Your horrible, skeleton, aureoled ideal,

Your weird bright motor-productive mechanism,

Two spectres.

But moreover

A dark, unfathomed will, that is not un-Jewish;

A set, stoic endurance, non-European;

An ultimate desperateness, un-African;

A deliberate generosity, non-Oriental.

The strange, unaccustomed geste of your demonish New World nature

Glimpsed now and then.

Nobody knows you.

You don’t know yourself.

And I, who am half in love with you,

What am I in love with?

My own imaginings?

Say it is not so.

Say, through the branches

America, America

Of all your machines,

Say, in the deep sockets of your idealistic skull,

Dark, aboriginal eyes

Stoic, able to wait through ages

Glancing.

Say, in the sound of all your machines

And white words, white-wash American,

Deep pulsing of a strange heart

New throb, like a stirring under the false dawn that precedes the real.

Nascent American

Demonish, lurking among the undergrowth

Of many-stemmed machines and chimneys that smoke like pine-trees.

Dark, elvish,

Modern, unissued, uncanny America,

Your nascent demon people

Lurking among the deeps of your industrial thicket

Allure me till I am beside myself,

A nympholepht.

“These States!” as Whitman said,

Whatever he meant.

Baden-Baden.