Conceit by David Herbert Lawrence

It is conceit that kills us
and makes us cowards instead of gods.

Under the great Command: Know thy self, and that thou art mortal!
we have become fatally self-conscious, fatally self-important, fatally entangled in the Laoco?n coils of our conceit.

Now we have to admit we can't know ourselves, we can only know about ourselves.
And I am not interested to know about myself any more,
I only entangle myself in the knowing.

Now let me be myself,
now let me be myself, and flicker forth,
now let me be myself, in the being, one of the gods.

by David Herbert Lawrence

Other poems by 'David Herbert Lawrence'

Ballad of Another Ophelia

Gloire de Dijon

Scent of Irises

The Punisher

Tortoise Gallantry

Craving for Spring

Troth with the Dead

Study

New Year's Eve

Mating

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