#Americans #Imagist #Women
The light passes from ridge to ridge, from flower to flower— the hepaticas, wide—spread under the light
You are clear O rose, cut in rock, hard as the descent of hail. I could scrape the colour from the petals
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,
All Greece hates the still eyes in the white face, the lustre as of olives where she stands, and the white hands.
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
White, O white face— from disenchanted days wither alike dark rose and fiery bays: no gift within our hands,
Will you glimmer on the sea? Will you fling your spear—head On the shore? What note shall we pitch? We have a song,
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…
Each of us like you has died once, has passed through drift of wood—l… cracked and bent and tortured and unbent
Can we believe—by an effort comfort our hearts: it is not waste all this, not placed here in disgust, street after street,
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,
I saw the first pear as it fell— the honey—seeking, golden—banded, the yellow swarm was not more fleet than I,
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…
The white violet is scented on its stalk, the sea—violet fragile as agate, lies fronting all the wind
I have had enough. I gasp for breath. Every way ends, every road, every foot-path leads at last to the hill-crest—
