like a shadow over a hill, but it does not alter me, nor help me. And death would ache still, I am sure; it would be lambent, uneasy. I wish it would be completely dark everywhere, inside me, and out, heavily dark utterly. WOLFRATSHAUSEN 

  

  

 SHE LOOKS BACK 

      THE pale bubbles The lovely pale-gold bubbles of the globe-flowers In a great swarm clotted and single Went rolling in the dusk towards the river To where the sunset hung its wan gold cloths; And you stood alone, watching them go, And that mother-love like a demon drew you from me Towards England. Along the road, after nightfall, Along the glamorous birch-tree avenue Across the river levels We went in silence, and you staring to England. So then there shone within the jungle darkness Of the long, lush under-grass, a glow-worm's sudden Green lantern of pure light, a little, intense, fusing triumph, White and haloed with fire-mist, down in the tangled darkness. Then you put your hand in mine again, kissed me, and we struggled to be together. And the little electric flashes went with us, in the grass, Tiny lighthouses, little souls of lanterns, courage burst into an explosion of green light Everywhere down in the grass, where darkness was ravelled in darkness. Still, the kiss was a touch of bitterness on my mouth Like salt, burning in. And my hand withered in your hand. For you were straining with a wild heart, back, back again, Back to those children you had left behind, to all the æons of the past. And I was here in the under-dusk of the Isar. At home, we leaned in the bedroom window Of the old Bavarian Gasthaus, And the frogs in the pool beyond thrilled with exuberance, Like a boiling pot the pond crackled with happiness, Like a rattle a child spins round for joy, the night rattled With the extravagance of the frogs, And you leaned your cheek on mine, And I suffered it, wanting to sympathise. At last, as you stood, your white gown falling from your breasts, You looked into my eyes, and said: "But this is joy!"      I acquiesced again. But the shadow of lying was in your eyes, The mother in you, fierce as a murderess, glaring to England, Yearning towards England, towards your young children, Insisting upon your motherhood, 

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