appassionato. The glamour Of childish days is upon me, my manhood is cast Down in the flood of remembrance, I weep like a child for the past. 

  

  

       EMBANKMENT AT NIGHT,     

       BEFORE THE WAR     

      Charity. 

 BY the river In the black wet night as the furtive rain slinks down, Dropping and starting from sleep Alone on a seat A woman crouches. I must go back to her. I want to give her Some money. Her hand slips out of the breast of her gown Asleep. My fingers creep Carefully over the sweet Thumb-mound, into the palm's deep pouches. So, the gift! God, how she starts! And looks at me, and looks in the palm of her hand! And again at me! I turn and run Down the Embankment, run for my life. But why?—why? Because of my heart's      Beating like sobs, I come to myself, and stand In the street spilled over splendidly With wet, flat lights. What I've done I know not, my soul is in strife. The touch was on the quick. I want to forget. 

  

  

       PHANTASMAGORIA     

 RIGID sleeps the house in darkness, I alone Like a thing unwarrantable cross the hall And climb the stairs to find the group of doors Standing angel-stern and tall. I want my own room's shelter. But what is this Throng of startled beings suddenly thrown In confusion against my entry? Is it only the trees'      Large shadows from the outside street lamp blown? Phantom to phantom leaning; strange women weep Aloud, suddenly on my mind Startling a fear unspeakable, as the shuddering wind Breaks and sobs in the blind. So like to women, tall strange women weeping! Why continually do they cross the bed? Why does my soul contract with unnatural fear? I am listening! Is anything said? Ever the long black figures swoop by the bed; They seem to be beckoning, rushing away, and beckoning. Whither then, whither, what is it, say What is the 

 Prev. P 11/24 next