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

Amber husk fluted with gold, fruit on the sand marked with a rich grain, treasure

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

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

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),

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,

Whirl up, sea— whirl your pointed pines, splash your great pines on our rocks, hurl your green over us,

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

Can we believe—by an effort comfort our hearts: it is not waste all this, not placed here in disgust, street after street,

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