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

Silver dust lifted from the earth, higher than my arms reach, you have mounted. O silver,

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

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

Stars wheel in purple, yours is no… as Hesperus, nor yet so great a st… as bright Aldeboran or Sirius, nor yet the stained and brilliant… stars turn in purple, glorious to…

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…

Will you glimmer on the sea? Will you fling your spear—head On the shore? What note shall we pitch? We have a song,

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

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

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

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

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