Are you alive? I touch you. You quiver like a sea—fish. I cover you with my net. What are you —banded one?

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,

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

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

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…

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

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

YOU are as gold as the half—ripe grain that merges to gold again, as white as the white rain that beats through

The mysteries remain, I keep the same cycle of seed—time and of sun and rain; Demeter in the grass,

Bear me to Dictaeus, and to the steep slopes; to the river Erymanthus. I choose spray of dittany, cyperum, frail of flower,

Thou art come at length More beautiful Than any cool god In a chamber under Lycia’s far coast,

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),