#AmericanWriters #FreeVerse #Imagery Imagist
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;
The light passes from ridge to ridge, from flower to flower— the hepaticas, wide—spread under the light
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…
YOU are as gold as the half—ripe grain that merges to gold again, as white as the white rain that beats through
O wind, rend open the heat, cut apart the heat, rend it to tatters. Fruit cannot drop through this thick air—
Where the slow river meets the tide, a red swan lifts red wings and darker beak, and underneath the purple down
Can we believe—by an effort comfort our hearts: it is not waste all this, not placed here in disgust, street after street,
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,
Rose, harsh rose, marred and with stint of petals, meagre flower, thin, sparse of leaf, more precious
Thou art come at length More beautiful Than any cool god In a chamber under Lycia’s far coast,
The white violet is scented on its stalk, the sea—violet fragile as agate, lies fronting all the wind
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.
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),
White, O white face— from disenchanted days wither alike dark rose and fiery bays: no gift within our hands,