#AmericanWriters
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
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
Bear me to Dictaeus, and to the steep slopes; to the river Erymanthus. I choose spray of dittany, cyperum, frail of flower,
Will you glimmer on the sea? Will you fling your spear—head On the shore? What note shall we pitch? We have a song,
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,
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
Weed, moss—weed, root tangled in sand, sea—iris, brittle flower, one petal like a shell is broken,
Over and back, the long waves crawl and track the sand with foam; night darkens, and the sea takes on that desperate tone
Wash of cold river in a glacial land, Ionian water, chill, snow—ribbed sand, drift of rare flowers,
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…
O wind, rend open the heat, cut apart the heat, rend it to tatters. Fruit cannot drop through this thick air—
I saw the first pear as it fell— the honey—seeking, golden—banded, the yellow swarm was not more fleet than I,
Amber husk fluted with gold, fruit on the sand marked with a rich grain, treasure