#Americans #Imagist #Women
You are clear O rose, cut in rock, hard as the descent of hail. I could scrape the colour from the petals
The mysteries remain, I keep the same cycle of seed—time and of sun and rain; Demeter in the grass,
The white violet is scented on its stalk, the sea—violet fragile as agate, lies fronting all the wind
All Greece hates the still eyes in the white face, the lustre as of olives where she stands, and the white hands.
Over and back, the long waves crawl and track the sand with foam; night darkens, and the sea takes on that desperate tone
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),
Rose, harsh rose, marred and with stint of petals, meagre flower, thin, sparse of leaf, more precious
Bear me to Dictaeus, and to the steep slopes; to the river Erymanthus. I choose spray of dittany, cyperum, frail of flower,
Silver dust lifted from the earth, higher than my arms reach, you have mounted. O silver,
O wind, rend open the heat, cut apart the heat, rend it to tatters. Fruit cannot drop through this thick air—
Wash of cold river in a glacial land, Ionian water, chill, snow—ribbed sand, drift of rare flowers,
Amber husk fluted with gold, fruit on the sand marked with a rich grain, treasure
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…
Will you glimmer on the sea? Will you fling your spear—head On the shore? What note shall we pitch? We have a song,
