A THICK mist-sheet lies over the broken
wheat.
I walk up
to my neck in mist, holding my mouth up.
Across there, a discoloured
moon burns itself out.
I hold the night in horror;
I dare not turn
round.
To-night I have left her alone.
They would have it I have
left her for ever.
Oh my God, how it aches
Where she is cut off from
me!
Perhaps she will go back to England.
Perhaps she will go
back,
Perhaps we
are parted for ever.
If I go on walking through the whole breadth
of
Germany
I come to
the North Sea, or the Baltic.
Over there is Russia — Austria, Switzerland,
France,
in a
circle!
I here in
the undermist on the Bavarian road.
It aches in me.
What is England or France, far off,
But a name she might
take?
I don’t mind
this continent stretching, the sea far away;
It aches in me for
her
Like the agony
of limbs cut off and aching;
Not even longing,
It is only agony.
A cripple!
Oh God, to be mutilated!
To be a
cripple!
And if I never see her again?
I think, if they told me so
I could convulse the heavens
with my horror.
I
think I could alter the frame of things in my agony.
I think I could break the
System with my heart.
I think, in my convulsion, the skies would
break.
She too suffers.
But who could compel her, if she chose me
against
them
all?
She has not
chosen me finally, she suspends her choice.
Night folk, Tuatha De Danaan,
dark Gods, govern
her sleep,
Magnificent ghosts of the darkness, carry off her
decision in
sleep,
Leave her
no choice, make her lapse me-ward,
make her,
Oh Gods of the living Darkness, powers of
Night.
WOLFRATSHAUSEN