Touch comes when the white mind sleeps
and only then.
Touch comes slowly, if ever; it seeps
slowly up in the blood of men and women.
Soft slow sympathy
of the blood in me, of the blood in here
rises and flushes insidiously
over the conscious personality
of each of us, and covers us
with a soft one warmth, and a generous
kindled togertheness, so we go
into each other as tides flow
under a moon they do no know.
Personalities exist apart;
and personal intimacy has no heart.
Touch is of the blood
uncontaminated, the unmental flood.
When again in us
the soft blood softly flows together
towards touch, then this delirious
day of mental welter and belter
will be passing away, we shall cease to fuss.
D. H. Lawrence, The Complete Poems.
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