#Americans #Imagist #Women
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…
Wash of cold river in a glacial land, Ionian water, chill, snow—ribbed sand, drift of rare flowers,
All Greece hates the still eyes in the white face, the lustre as of olives where she stands, and the white hands.
O be swift— we have always known you wanted us… We fled inland with our flocks. we pastured them in hollows, cut off from the wind
You are clear O rose, cut in rock, hard as the descent of hail. I could scrape the colour from the petals
Will you glimmer on the sea? Will you fling your spear—head On the shore? What note shall we pitch? We have a song,
Weed, moss—weed, root tangled in sand, sea—iris, brittle flower, one petal like a shell is broken,
Rose, harsh rose, marred and with stint of petals, meagre flower, thin, sparse of leaf, more precious
Whirl up, sea— whirl your pointed pines, splash your great pines on our rocks, hurl your green over us,
Amber husk fluted with gold, fruit on the sand marked with a rich grain, treasure
Thou art come at length More beautiful Than any cool god In a chamber under Lycia’s far coast,
I have had enough. I gasp for breath. Every way ends, every road, every foot-path leads at last to the hill-crest—
The mysteries remain, I keep the same cycle of seed—time and of sun and rain; Demeter in the grass,
Each of us like you has died once, has passed through drift of wood—l… cracked and bent and tortured and unbent
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…