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
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