Now it is autumn and the failing fruit
and the long journey towards oblivion.

The apples falling like great drops of dew
to bruise themselves and exit from themselves.

and it is time to go, to bid farewell
to one's own self, and find an exit
from the fallen self.

Have you built your ship of death, O have you?
O build your ship of death, for you will need it.

The grim frost is at hand, when the apples will fall
thick, almost thundrous, on the hardened earth.

And death is on the air like a smell of ashes!
Ah! can't you smell it?

And in the bruised body, the frightened soul
finds itself shrinking, wincing from the cold
that blows upon it through the orifices.

And can a man his own quietus make
with a bare bodkin?

With daggers, bodkins,bullets,man can make
a bruise or break for exit for his life;
but is that a quietus, O tell me, is it quietus?

Surely not so! for how could murder, even self-murder
ever a quietus make?

O let us talk of quiet that we know,
that we can know, the deep and lovely quiet
of a strong heart at peace!

How can we this, our own quietus make?

Build then the ship of death, for you must take
the longest journey , to oblivion.

And die the death, the long and painful death
that lies between the old self and the new.

Already our bodies are fallen, bruised, badly bruised,
already our souls are oozing through the exit
of the cruel bruise.

Already the dark and endless ocean of the end
is washing in through the breachers of our wounds,
already the flood is upon us.

Oh build your ship of death, your little ark
and furnish it with food, with little cakes and wine
for the dark flight down oblivion.

Piecemeal the body dies, and the timid soul
has her footing washed away, as the dark flood rises.

We are dying, we are dying, we are all of us dying
and nothing will stay the death-flood rising within us
and soon it will rise on the world, on the outside world.

We are dying, we are dying, piecemeal our bodies are dying
and our strength leave us,
and our souls cower naked in the dark rain over the flood,
cowering in the last branches of the tree of our life.

We are dying, we are dying, so all we can do
is now to be willing to die, and to build the ship
of death to carry the soul on the longest journey.

A little ship, with oars and food
and little dishes, and all accouterments
fitting and ready for the departing soul.

Now launch the small ship, now as the body dies
and life departs, launch out, the fragile soul
in the fragile ship of courage, the ark of faith
with its store of food and little cooking pans
and change of clothes,
upon the flood's back waste
upon the waters of the end
upon the sea of death, where still we sail
darkly, for we cannot steer, and have no port.

there is no port, there is nowhere to go
only the deepening blackness darkening still
blacker upon the soundless, ungurgling flood
darkness at one with darkness, up and down
and sideways utterly dark, so there is no direction anymore
She is not seen, for there is nothing to see her by.
She is gone! gone! and yet
somewhere she is there.
Nowhere!

And everything is gone, the body is gone
completely under, gone, entirely gone.
the upper darkness is heavy as the lower,
between them the little ship
is gone.

It is the end, it is oblivion.

And yet out of eternity a thread
separates itself on the blackness,
a horizontal thread
that fumes a little with pallor upon the dark.

Is it illusion? or does the pallor fume
A little higher?
Ah wait, wait, for there's the dawn,
the cruel dawn of coming back to life
out of oblivion

Wait, wait, the little ship
drifting, beneath the deathly ashy gray
of a flood-dawn.

Wait, wait! even so, a flush of yellow
and strangely, O chilled wan soul, a flush of rose.

A flush of rose, and the whole thing starts again.

The flood subsides, and the body, like a worn sea-shell
emerges strange and lovely.
And the little ship wings home, faltering and lapsing
on the pink flood,
and the frail soul steps out, into her house again
filling the heart with peace.

Swings the heart renewed with peace
even of oblivion

Oh build your ship of death, oh build it!
for you will need it.
For the voyage of oblivion awaits you.

Response to The Ship of Death:

D.H. Lawrence is expressing his anger towards death, and what it represents. This time period was a very rebellious one, where the possibility of an existing God was very weak. They did not believe there was a God and therefore could not explain death or where you would go after death. I believe some of this anger is due to fear of not knowing what will happen.

His anger can be easily detected from the intonation with which he writes, " And, death is on the air like a smell of ashes! Ah! Can't you smell it?" He tries to describe death as voyage, and states we should all build our ships since we do not know when it will strike us. He also says to pack some things in the ship, trying to show us that it is an empty voyage since our souls leave our bodies and there is nothing left .

I understand the writers anger but I do not share the feeling, I believe that if we die we are going to a better place, and since we are all going to die sometime... "Surely not so! for how could murder even self- murder ever a quietus make?" He is trying to say that bullets and guns , wars in general are not a tranquil and peaceful death. ' How can you say that he is in peace if he died due to fighting' is what D.H.Lawrence argues. He is contradicting the famous saying "rest in Peace" , he does not believe we die in peace from battles and killing each other. Lawrence is angry at the people who do not see that death is empty, it is not peace it is a long lonely voyage that we all have to prepare ourselves for.