John Rodker

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!