D. H. Lawrence’s “Elegy” mourns a lost lover. The speaker remembers the immense rosy sun going dark the night his beloved died—since then, daytime has felt grey, weary, and full of empty display. He finds no comfort in daylight’s fuss and flattery; it only tires him. What remains is night: a huge dark glittering window, a bubble surrounding an otherwise hollow life with lights. His soul moves inside that bubble like a breath spinning, brushing the stars, skimming its edges like a swallow. The thin film of night separates him from the dead, but it is almost transparent. Looking through, he can nearly touch the beloved. Darkness is not just absence; it is the one place where the beloved still feels near. The mood is quiet and grief-stricken, yet strangely luminous—sorrow becomes a fragile closeness under the night sky.
Elegy — Summary
The sun immense and rosy Must have sunk and become extinct The night you closed your eyes for ever against me.
Grey days, and wan, dree dawnings Since then, with fritter of flowers-- Day wearies me with its ostentation and fawnings.
Still, you left me the nights, The great dark glittery window, The bubble hemming this empty existence with lights.
Still in the vast hollow Like a breath in a bubble spinning Brushing the stars, goes my soul, that skims the bounds like a swallow!
I can look through The film of the bubble night, to where you are. Through the film I can almost touch you.