#Americans #Imagist #Women
Can we believe—by an effort comfort our hearts: it is not waste all this, not placed here in disgust, street after street,
Where the slow river meets the tide, a red swan lifts red wings and darker beak, and underneath the purple down
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),
All Greece hates the still eyes in the white face, the lustre as of olives where she stands, and the white hands.
White, O white face— from disenchanted days wither alike dark rose and fiery bays: no gift within our hands,
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 have had enough. I gasp for breath. Every way ends, every road, every foot-path leads at last to the hill-crest—
Amber husk fluted with gold, fruit on the sand marked with a rich grain, treasure
Silver dust lifted from the earth, higher than my arms reach, you have mounted. O silver,
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
Hymen, O Hymen king, what bitter thing is this? what shaft, tearing my heart? what scar, what light, what fire searing my eye—balls and my eyes w…
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,
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
Whirl up, sea— whirl your pointed pines, splash your great pines on our rocks, hurl your green over us,
