Flat suburbs, s.w., in the morning

by D. H. Lawrence

THE new red houses spring like plants
      In level rows
Of reddish herbage that bristles and slants
      Its square shadows.
The pink young houses show one side bright
      Flatly assuming the sun,
And one side shadow, half in sight,
      Half-hiding the pavement-run;
Where hastening creatures pass intent
      On their level way,
Threading like ants that can never relent
      And have nothing to say.
Bare stems of street-lamps stiffly stand
      At random, desolate twigs,
To testify to a blight on the land
      That has stripped their sprigs.