#Americans #Imagist #Women #FreeVerse
Whirl up, sea— whirl your pointed pines, splash your great pines on our rocks, hurl your green over us,
Will you glimmer on the sea? Will you fling your spear—head On the shore? What note shall we pitch? We have a song,
The mysteries remain, I keep the same cycle of seed—time and of sun and rain; Demeter in the grass,
White, O white face— from disenchanted days wither alike dark rose and fiery bays: no gift within our hands,
I saw the first pear as it fell— the honey—seeking, golden—banded, the yellow swarm was not more fleet than I,
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…
O be swift— we have always known you wanted us… We fled inland with our flocks. we pastured them in hollows, cut off from the wind
The light passes from ridge to ridge, from flower to flower— the hepaticas, wide—spread under the light
Are you alive? I touch you. You quiver like a sea—fish. I cover you with my net. What are you —banded one?
Bear me to Dictaeus, and to the steep slopes; to the river Erymanthus. I choose spray of dittany, cyperum, frail of flower,
Crash on crash of the sea, straining to wreck men; sea—boards… raging against the world, furious, stay at last, for against your fur… and your mad fight,
Thou art come at length More beautiful Than any cool god In a chamber under Lycia’s far coast,
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
Silver dust lifted from the earth, higher than my arms reach, you have mounted. O silver,