#Americans #Imagist #Women #FreeVerse #Imagery
Where the slow river meets the tide, a red swan lifts red wings and darker beak, and underneath the purple down
The white violet is scented on its stalk, the sea—violet fragile as agate, lies fronting all the wind
Silver dust lifted from the earth, higher than my arms reach, you have mounted. O silver,
YOU are as gold as the half—ripe grain that merges to gold again, as white as the white rain that beats through
White, O white face— from disenchanted days wither alike dark rose and fiery bays: no gift within our hands,
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,
All Greece hates the still eyes in the white face, the lustre as of olives where she stands, and the white hands.
Weed, moss—weed, root tangled in sand, sea—iris, brittle flower, one petal like a shell is broken,
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…
Bear me to Dictaeus, and to the steep slopes; to the river Erymanthus. I choose spray of dittany, cyperum, frail of flower,
I have had enough. I gasp for breath. Every way ends, every road, every foot-path leads at last to the hill-crest—
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),
O wind, rend open the heat, cut apart the heat, rend it to tatters. Fruit cannot drop through this thick air—
Will you glimmer on the sea? Will you fling your spear—head On the shore? What note shall we pitch? We have a song,
