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The North Country - By D H Lawrence

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 gloom

That wraps the north in stupor and purple travels

the deep, slow boom

Of the man-life north-imprisoned, shut in the hum

of the purpled steel

As 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, somnambule

Moans and booms the soul of a people imprisoned,

asleep in the rule

Of the strong machine that runs mesmeric, booming

the spell of its word

Upon 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 there

In the spell-bound north, convulsive now with a

dream near morning, strong

With violent achings heaving to burst the sleep

that is now not long.

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