The north country

by D. H. Lawrence

　　

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IN another country, black poplars shake them- selves over a pond,And rooks and the rising smoke-waves scatter and wheel from the works beyond;The air is dark with north and with sulphur, the grass is a darker green,And people darkly invested with purple move palpable through the scene.Soundlessly down across the counties, out of the resonant gloomThat wraps the north in stupor and purple travels the deep, slow boomOf the man-life north-imprisoned, shut in the hum of the purpled steelAs it spins to sleep on its motion, drugged dense in the sleep of the wheel.Out of the sleep, from the gloom of motion, sound- lessly, somnambuleMoans and booms the soul of a people imprisoned, asleep in the ruleOf the strong machine that runs mesmeric, booming the spell of its wordUpon them and moving them helpless, mechanic, their will to its will deferred.Yet all the while comes the droning inaudible, out of the violet air,The moaning of sleep-bound beings in travail that toil and are will-less thereIn the spell-bound north, convulsive now with a dream near morning, strongWith violent achings heaving to burst the sleep that is now not long.

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