Each of us like you has died once, has passed through drift of wood—l… cracked and bent and tortured and unbent

Whirl up, sea— whirl your pointed pines, splash your great pines on our rocks, hurl your green over us,

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),

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…

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

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,

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

Will you glimmer on the sea? Will you fling your spear—head On the shore? What note shall we pitch? We have a song,

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

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

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;