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Tortoises   By: (1885-1930)

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First Page:


By D. H. Lawrence





Baby Tortoise

Tortoise Shell

Tortoise Family Connections

Lui et Elle

Tortoise Gallantry

Tortoise Shout


You know what it is to be born alone, Baby tortoise! The first day to heave your feet little by little from the shell, Not yet awake, And remain lapsed on earth, Not quite alive.

A tiny, fragile, half animate bean.

To open your tiny beak mouth, that looks as if it would never open, Like some iron door; To lift the upper hawk beak from the lower base And reach your skinny little neck And take your first bite at some dim bit of herbage, Alone, small insect, Tiny bright eye, Slow one.

To take your first solitary bite And move on your slow, solitary hunt. Your bright, dark little eye, Your eye of a dark disturbed night, Under its slow lid, tiny baby tortoise, So indomitable.

No one ever heard you complain.

You draw your head forward, slowly, from your little wimple And set forward, slow dragging, on your four pinned toes, Rowing slowly forward. Whither away, small bird?

Rather like a baby working its limbs, Except that you make slow, ageless progress And a baby makes none.

The touch of sun excites you, And the long ages, and the lingering chill Make you pause to yawn, Opening your impervious mouth, Suddenly beak shaped, and very wide, like some suddenly gaping pincers; Soft red tongue, and hard thin gums, Then close the wedge of your little mountain front, Your face, baby tortoise.

Do you wonder at the world, as slowly you turn your head in its wimple And look with laconic, black eyes? Or is sleep coming over you again, The non life?

You are so hard to wake.

Are you able to wonder?

Or is it just your indomitable will and pride of the first life Looking round And slowly pitching itself against the inertia Which had seemed invincible?

The vast inanimate, And the fine brilliance of your so tiny eye.


Nay, tiny shell bird, What a huge vast inanimate it is, that you must row against, What an incalculable inertia.


Little Ulysses, fore runner, No bigger than my thumb nail, Buon viaggio.

All animate creation on your shoulder, Set forth, little Titan, under your battle shield.

The ponderous, preponderate, Inanimate universe; And you are slowly moving, pioneer, you alone.

How vivid your travelling seems now, in the troubled sunshine, Stoic, Ulyssean atom; Suddenly hasty, reckless, on high toes.

Voiceless little bird, Resting your head half out of your wimple In the slow dignity of your eternal pause. Alone, with no sense of being alone, And hence six times more solitary; Fulfilled of the slow passion of pitching through immemorial ages Your little round house in the midst of chaos.

Over the garden earth, Small bird, Over the edge of all things.

Traveller, With your tail tucked a little on one side Like a gentleman in a long skirted coat.

All life carried on your shoulder, Invincible fore runner.

The Cross, the Cross Goes deeper in than we know, Deeper into life; Right into the marrow And through the bone.


Along the back of the baby tortoise The scales are locked in an arch like a bridge, Scale lapping, like a lobster's sections Or a bee's... Continue reading book >>

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