David Herbert Lawrence (11 September 1885 – 2 March 1930) was one of the most important, certainly one of the most controversial, English writers of the 20th century, who wrote novels, short stories, poems, plays, essays, travel books, and letters.
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Embankment at Night, before the War: Charity

By the river
In the black wet night as the furtive rain slinks down,
Dropping and starting from sleep
Alone on a seat
A woman crouches.

I must go back to her.

I want to give her
Some money. Her hand slips out of the breast of her gown
Asleep. My fingers creep
Carefully over the sweet
Thumb-mound, into the palm’s deep pouches.

So, the gift!

God, how she starts!
And looks at me, and looks in the palm of her hand!
And again at me!
I turn and run
Down the Embankment, run for my life.

But why?—why?

Because of my heart’s
Beating like sobs, I come to myself, and stand
In the street spilled over splendidly
With wet, flat lights. What I’ve done
I know not, my soul is in strife.

The touch was on the quick. I want to forget.

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Your turn

Write a charity. Send us your poem.

Your texts

I wonder what will be next

At times I find myself
Wondering what will be next -
What has fate on her shelf
That'll change my life's text.

What evil creatures do endow
To mess around my hopes and prayers?
I ask myself: "What to do now?
What is to find in life's layers?"

But in all this confusing race
I thrive on all the other losers.
Pity I fell for their mistakes,
Thanking my generous makers.

Maria Moldovan

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