Next morning

by D. H. Lawrence

　　

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How have I wandered here to this vaulted roomIn the house of life?—the floor was ruffled with goldLast evening, and she who was softly in bloom,Glimmered as flowers that in perfume at twilight unfoldFor the flush of the night; whereas now the gloomOf every dirty, must-besprinkled mould,And damp old web of misery's heirloomDeadens this day's grey-dropping arras-fold.And what is this that floats on the undermistOf the mirror towards the dusty grate, as if feelingUnsightly its way to the warmth?—this thing with a listTo the left? this ghost like a candle swealing?Pale-blurred, with two round black drops, as if it missedItself among everything else, here hungrily stealingUpon me!—my own reflection!—explicit gistOf my presence there in the mirror that leans from the ceiling!Then will somebody square this shade with the being I knowI was last night, when my soul rang clear as a bellAnd happy as rain in summer? Why should it be so?What is there gone against me, why am I in hell?

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