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

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),

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

White, O white face— from disenchanted days wither alike dark rose and fiery bays: no gift within our hands,

Each of us like you has died once, has passed through drift of wood—l… cracked and bent and tortured and unbent

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,

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