XXXVIII
This is no mere dallying of love between us, my lover.
Again and again have swooped down upon me the screaming nights of storm, blowing out my lamp: dark doubts have gathered, blotting out all stars from my sky.
Again and again the banks have burst, letting the flood sweep away my harvest, and wailing and despair have rent my sky from end to end.
This have I learnt that there are blows of pain in your love, never the cold apathy of death.