#AmericanWriters
Amber husk fluted with gold, fruit on the sand marked with a rich grain, treasure
White, O white face— from disenchanted days wither alike dark rose and fiery bays: no gift within our hands,
The white violet is scented on its stalk, the sea—violet fragile as agate, lies fronting all the wind
Whirl up, sea— whirl your pointed pines, splash your great pines on our rocks, hurl your green over us,
Over and back, the long waves crawl and track the sand with foam; night darkens, and the sea takes on that desperate tone
I have had enough. I gasp for breath. Every way ends, every road, every foot-path leads at last to the hill-crest—
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),
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…
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;
You are clear O rose, cut in rock, hard as the descent of hail. I could scrape the colour from the petals
Where the slow river meets the tide, a red swan lifts red wings and darker beak, and underneath the purple down
Silver dust lifted from the earth, higher than my arms reach, you have mounted. O silver,
Can we believe—by an effort comfort our hearts: it is not waste all this, not placed here in disgust, street after street,
Rose, harsh rose, marred and with stint of petals, meagre flower, thin, sparse of leaf, more precious
Will you glimmer on the sea? Will you fling your spear—head On the shore? What note shall we pitch? We have a song,