The searchlights over London
Are like the fingers of a woman,
Wandering over the dead form of a lover.
She had not thought to do that
While he was living,
To better know his loveliness;
Or if she had
He'd stopped her with his kisses.
Now in her great grief
Her fingers are to her
Sight and sound and hearing.
By all the ways of sense
She knows him lost to her,
Yet cannot voice her grief.
Only can she raise white hands towards the heavens,
And passionate cursings and great grief;
Yet no sign comes, no portent.
Oh, if one blistering tear might come from on high
To crumple up and twist the earth,
She'd know her nightly passion not so vain--
When her first pang
Burst the heavens with howling of guns!
