#Americans #Imagist #Women
The mysteries remain, I keep the same cycle of seed—time and of sun and rain; Demeter in the grass,
All Greece hates the still eyes in the white face, the lustre as of olives where she stands, and the white hands.
I saw the first pear as it fell— the honey—seeking, golden—banded, the yellow swarm was not more fleet than I,
White, O white face— from disenchanted days wither alike dark rose and fiery bays: no gift within our hands,
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,
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…
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
Will you glimmer on the sea? Will you fling your spear—head On the shore? What note shall we pitch? We have a song,
Whirl up, sea— whirl your pointed pines, splash your great pines on our rocks, hurl your green over us,
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
The white violet is scented on its stalk, the sea—violet fragile as agate, lies fronting all the wind
Bear me to Dictaeus, and to the steep slopes; to the river Erymanthus. I choose spray of dittany, cyperum, frail of flower,
Over and back, the long waves crawl and track the sand with foam; night darkens, and the sea takes on that desperate tone