#Americans #Imagist #Women
White, O white face— from disenchanted days wither alike dark rose and fiery bays: no gift within our hands,
O wind, rend open the heat, cut apart the heat, rend it to tatters. Fruit cannot drop through this thick air—
So you have swept me back, I who could have walked with the l… above the earth, I who could have slept among the l… at last;
I have had enough. I gasp for breath. Every way ends, every road, every foot-path leads at last to the hill-crest—
Whirl up, sea— whirl your pointed pines, splash your great pines on our rocks, hurl your green over us,
The white violet is scented on its stalk, the sea—violet fragile as agate, lies fronting all the wind
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…
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…
Over and back, the long waves crawl and track the sand with foam; night darkens, and the sea takes on that desperate tone
Each of us like you has died once, has passed through drift of wood—l… cracked and bent and tortured and unbent
All Greece hates the still eyes in the white face, the lustre as of olives where she stands, and the white hands.
Can we believe—by an effort comfort our hearts: it is not waste all this, not placed here in disgust, street after street,
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
I saw the first pear as it fell— the honey—seeking, golden—banded, the yellow swarm was not more fleet than I,
You are clear O rose, cut in rock, hard as the descent of hail. I could scrape the colour from the petals
