#Americans #Imagist #Women
So you have swept me back, I who could have walked with the l… above the earth, I who could have slept among the l… at last;
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…
Where the slow river meets the tide, a red swan lifts red wings and darker beak, and underneath the purple down
Will you glimmer on the sea? Will you fling your spear—head On the shore? What note shall we pitch? We have a song,
Rose, harsh rose, marred and with stint of petals, meagre flower, thin, sparse of leaf, more precious
Amber husk fluted with gold, fruit on the sand marked with a rich grain, treasure
White, O white face— from disenchanted days wither alike dark rose and fiery bays: no gift within our hands,
Silver dust lifted from the earth, higher than my arms reach, you have mounted. O silver,
Wash of cold river in a glacial land, Ionian water, chill, snow—ribbed sand, drift of rare flowers,
Thou art come at length More beautiful Than any cool god In a chamber under Lycia’s far coast,
YOU are as gold as the half—ripe grain that merges to gold again, as white as the white rain that beats through
Weed, moss—weed, root tangled in sand, sea—iris, brittle flower, one petal like a shell is broken,
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,
The mysteries remain, I keep the same cycle of seed—time and of sun and rain; Demeter in the grass,
Can we believe—by an effort comfort our hearts: it is not waste all this, not placed here in disgust, street after street,