Lawrence writes as a man who expects to keep burning through many more years, like a candle flame trapped in a living body. That outward burning may look careless or dissolute, since it feeds on whatever life brings. But he says it does not matter what the flame consumes. Inside the fire’s core he keeps something untouched: a darkness, a sleeping presence, a “her” whose soul is folded into his own—less a specific person, perhaps, than a private inner companion. This hidden figure dreams his dreams in a still, inviolate night within him. The mood is secretive, tender, and quietly defiant. The speaker feels divided between a public, burning self and a private, almost sacred inner life. He is not ashamed of how he lives because his real loyalty belongs to that inner darkness, which stays constant no matter what fuel the outer flame licks up.
Dissolute — Summary
Many years have I still to burn, detained Like a candle flame on this body; but I enshrine A darkness within me, a presence which sleeps contained In my flame of living, her soul enfolded in mine.
And through these years, while I burn on the fuel of life, What matter the stuff I lick up in my living flame, Seeing I keep in the fire-core, inviolate, A night where she dreams my dreams for me, ever the same.