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      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, devastating.

       Still, the joy was there also, you spoke truly,

       The joy was not to be driven off so easily;

       Stronger than fear or destructive mother-love, it

       stood flickering;

       The frogs helped also, whirring away.

       Yet how I have learned to know that look in your

       eyes

       Of horrid sorrow!

       How I know that glitter of salt, dry, sterile,

       sharp, corrosive salt!

       Not tears, but white sharp brine

       Making hideous your eyes.

       I have seen it, felt it in my mouth, my throat, my

       chest, my belly,

       Burning of powerful salt, burning, eating through

       my defenceless nakedness.

       I have been thrust into white, sharp crystals,

       Writhing, twisting, superpenetrated.

       Ah, Lot's Wife, Lot's Wife!

       The pillar of salt, the whirling, horrible column

       of salt, like a waterspout

       That has enveloped me!

       Snow of salt, white, burning, eating salt

       In which I have writhed.

       Lot's Wife!—Not Wife, but Mother.

       I have learned to curse your motherhood,

       You pillar of salt accursed.

       I have cursed motherhood because of you,

       Accursed, base motherhood!

       I long for the time to come, when the curse against

       you will have gone out of my heart.

       But it has not gone yet.

       Nevertheless, once, the frogs, the globe-flowers of

       Bavaria, the glow-worms

       Gave me sweet lymph against the salt-burns,

       There is a kindness in the very rain.

       Therefore, even in the hour of my deepest, pas-

       sionate malediction

       I try to remember it is also well between us.

       That you are with me in the end.

       That you never look quite back; nine-tenths, ah,

       more

       You look round over your shoulder;

       But never quite back.

       Nevertheless the curse against you is still in my

       heart

       Like a deep, deep burn.

       The curse against all mothers.

       All mothers who fortify themselves in motherhood,

       devastating the vision.

       They are accursed, and the curse is not taken off

       It burns within me like a deep, old burn,

       And oh, I wish it was better.

       BEUERBERG