#Americans #Imagist #Women
Bear me to Dictaeus, and to the steep slopes; to the river Erymanthus. I choose spray of dittany, cyperum, frail of flower,
You are clear O rose, cut in rock, hard as the descent of hail. I could scrape the colour from the petals
Can we believe—by an effort comfort our hearts: it is not waste all this, not placed here in disgust, street after street,
O wind, rend open the heat, cut apart the heat, rend it to tatters. Fruit cannot drop through this thick air—
The mysteries remain, I keep the same cycle of seed—time and of sun and rain; Demeter in the grass,
Over and back, the long waves crawl and track the sand with foam; night darkens, and the sea takes on that desperate tone
Wash of cold river in a glacial land, Ionian water, chill, snow—ribbed sand, drift of rare flowers,
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
All Greece hates the still eyes in the white face, the lustre as of olives where she stands, and the white hands.
Silver dust lifted from the earth, higher than my arms reach, you have mounted. O silver,
The white violet is scented on its stalk, the sea—violet fragile as agate, lies fronting all the wind
Hymen, O Hymen king, what bitter thing is this? what shaft, tearing my heart? what scar, what light, what fire searing my eye—balls and my eyes w…
Crash on crash of the sea, straining to wreck men; sea—boards… raging against the world, furious, stay at last, for against your fur… and your mad fight,
Whirl up, sea— whirl your pointed pines, splash your great pines on our rocks, hurl your green over us,
I first tasted under Apollo’s lip… love and love sweetness, I, Evadne; my hair is made of crisp violets or hyacinth which the wind combs b…