Can we believe—by an effort comfort our hearts: it is not waste all this, not placed here in disgust, street after street,

The light passes from ridge to ridge, from flower to flower— the hepaticas, wide—spread under the light

YOU are as gold as the half—ripe grain that merges to gold again, as white as the white rain that beats through

Will you glimmer on the sea? Will you fling your spear—head On the shore? What note shall we pitch? We have a song,

White, O white face— from disenchanted days wither alike dark rose and fiery bays: no gift within our hands,

Whirl up, sea— whirl your pointed pines, splash your great pines on our rocks, hurl your green over us,

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…

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 saw the first pear as it fell— the honey—seeking, golden—banded, the yellow swarm was not more fleet than I,

Where the slow river meets the tide, a red swan lifts red wings and darker beak, and underneath the purple down

Bear me to Dictaeus, and to the steep slopes; to the river Erymanthus. I choose spray of dittany, cyperum, frail of flower,

Amber husk fluted with gold, fruit on the sand marked with a rich grain, treasure

The mysteries remain, I keep the same cycle of seed—time and of sun and rain; Demeter in the grass,

Over and back, the long waves crawl and track the sand with foam; night darkens, and the sea takes on that desperate tone