#Americans #Imagist #Women
Whirl up, sea— whirl your pointed pines, splash your great pines on our rocks, hurl your green over us,
White, O white face— from disenchanted days wither alike dark rose and fiery bays: no gift within our hands,
Thou art come at length More beautiful Than any cool god In a chamber under Lycia’s far coast,
All Greece hates the still eyes in the white face, the lustre as of olives where she stands, and the white hands.
Can we believe—by an effort comfort our hearts: it is not waste all this, not placed here in disgust, street after street,
I saw the first pear as it fell— the honey—seeking, golden—banded, the yellow swarm was not more fleet than I,
O wind, rend open the heat, cut apart the heat, rend it to tatters. Fruit cannot drop through this thick air—
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…
I have had enough. I gasp for breath. Every way ends, every road, every foot-path leads at last to the hill-crest—
Silver dust lifted from the earth, higher than my arms reach, you have mounted. O silver,
Wash of cold river in a glacial land, Ionian water, chill, snow—ribbed sand, drift of rare flowers,
Where the slow river meets the tide, a red swan lifts red wings and darker beak, and underneath the purple down
Weed, moss—weed, root tangled in sand, sea—iris, brittle flower, one petal like a shell is broken,
YOU are as gold as the half—ripe grain that merges to gold again, as white as the white rain that beats through
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),
