D.H. Lawrence

A Review in Hyde Park 1913. The Crowd Watches.

WHERE the trees rise like cliffs, proud and
  blue-tinted in the distance,
Between the cliffs of the trees, on the grey-
  green park
Rests a still line of soldiers, red motionless range of
Smouldering with darkened busbies beneath the bay-
  onets' slant rain.

Colossal in nearness a blue police sits still on his horse
Guarding the path; his hand relaxed at his thigh,
And skyward his face is immobile, eyelids aslant
In tedium, and mouth relaxed as if smiling--ineffable

So! So! Gaily a general canters across the space,
With white plumes blinking under the evening grey
And suddenly, as if the ground moved
The red range heaves in slow, magnetic reply.


The red range heaves and compulsory sways, ah see!
  in the flush of a march
Softly-impulsive advancing as water towards a weir
  from the arch
Of shadow emerging as blood emerges from inward
  shades of our night
Encroaching towards a crisis, a meeting, a spasm and
  throb of delight.

The wave of soldiers, the coming wave, the throbbing
  red breast of approach
Upon us; dark eyes as here beneath the busbies glit-
  tering, dark threats that broach
Our beached vessel; darkened rencontre inhuman, and
  closed warm lips, and dark
Mouth-hair of soldiers passing above us, over the wreck
  of our bark.

And so, it is ebb-time, they turn, the eyes beneath the
  busbies are gone.
But the blood has suspended its timbre, the heart from
  out of oblivion
Knows but the retreat of the burning shoulders, the
  red-swift waves of the sweet
Fire horizontal declining and ebbing, the twilit ebb of