From citron—bower be her bed, cut from branch of tree a—flower, fashioned for her maidenhead. From Lydian apples, sweet of hue, cut the width of board and lathe,

I saw the first pear as it fell— the honey—seeking, golden—banded, the yellow swarm was not more fleet than I,

Weed, moss—weed, root tangled in sand, sea—iris, brittle flower, one petal like a shell is broken,

Whirl up, sea— whirl your pointed pines, splash your great pines on our rocks, hurl your green over us,

Over and back, the long waves crawl and track the sand with foam; night darkens, and the sea takes on that desperate tone

The light passes from ridge to ridge, from flower to flower— the hepaticas, wide—spread under the light

NOR skin nor hide nor fleece Shall cover you, Nor curtain of crimson nor fine Shelter of cedar—wood be over you, Nor the fir—tree

I should have thought in a dream you would have brought some lovely, perilous thing, orchids piled in a great sheath, as who would say (in a dream),

Where the slow river meets the tide, a red swan lifts red wings and darker beak, and underneath the purple down