#AmericanWriters
The light passes from ridge to ridge, from flower to flower— the hepaticas, wide—spread under the light
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
Bear me to Dictaeus, and to the steep slopes; to the river Erymanthus. I choose spray of dittany, cyperum, frail of flower,
The mysteries remain, I keep the same cycle of seed—time and of sun and rain; Demeter in the grass,
I have had enough. I gasp for breath. Every way ends, every road, every foot-path leads at last to the hill-crest—
The white violet is scented on its stalk, the sea—violet fragile as agate, lies fronting all the wind
Wash of cold river in a glacial land, Ionian water, chill, snow—ribbed sand, drift of rare flowers,
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…
Silver dust lifted from the earth, higher than my arms reach, you have mounted. O silver,
Over and back, the long waves crawl and track the sand with foam; night darkens, and the sea takes on that desperate tone
White, O white face— from disenchanted days wither alike dark rose and fiery bays: no gift within our hands,
Each of us like you has died once, has passed through drift of wood—l… cracked and bent and tortured and unbent
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
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,
I saw the first pear as it fell— the honey—seeking, golden—banded, the yellow swarm was not more fleet than I,
