Page:Tortoises, DH Lawrence, 1921.djvu/27



On he goes, the little one, Bud of the universe, Pediment of life.

Setting off somewhere, apparently. Whither away, brisk egg?

His mother deposited him on the soil as if he were no more than droppings, And now he scuffles tinily past her as if she were an old rusty tin.

A mere obstacle, He veers round the slow great mound of her— Tortoises always foresee obstacles.

It is no use my saying to him in an emotional voice: "This is your Mother, she laid you when you were    an egg." Rh