You know this: I must lose you once more and cannot. Like well-aimed bullets I feel Every deed, every cry, even the salt spray Whelming the quay And bringing the spring To dark on Genoa's ports. Country of ironwork and wood of ship-masts, Like a forest in the evening-dust. A drone is drawn out of wide open space, Scraping like a nail on panes. I seek the sign I have long lost, the one pledge ever mine from you. And hell is for certain