Over and back, the long waves crawl and track the sand with foam; night darkens, and the sea takes on that desperate tone

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

Where the slow river meets the tide, a red swan lifts red wings and darker beak, and underneath the purple down

The mysteries remain, I keep the same cycle of seed—time and of sun and rain; Demeter in the grass,

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),

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,

Can we believe—by an effort comfort our hearts: it is not waste all this, not placed here in disgust, street after street,

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…

Weed, moss—weed, root tangled in sand, sea—iris, brittle flower, one petal like a shell is broken,

From citron—bower be her bed, cut from branch of tree a—flower, fashioned for her maidenhead. From Lydian apples, sweet of hue, cut the width of board and lathe,