Hilda Doolittle
At Baia
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 send you this, Who left
Stars Wheel in Purple
Stars wheel in purple, yours is not so rare As Hesperus, nor yet so great a star As bright Aldeboran or Sirius, Nor yet the stained and brilliant one of War; Stars turn in
Sheltered Garden
I have had enough. I gasp for breath. Every way ends, every road, Every foot-path leads at last To the hill-crest Then you retrace your steps, Or find the same slope on the other
Cassandra
O Hymen king. 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 with flame? Nameless, O spoken
From Citron-Bower
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, Carve the feet from myrtle-wood. Let
Evadne
I first tasted under Apollo’s lips, Love and love sweetness, I, Evadne; My hair is made of crisp violets Or hyacinth which the wind combs back Across some rock shelf; I, Evadne, Was made
Pear Tree
Silver dust Lifted from the earth, Higher than my arms reach, You have mounted. O silver, Higher than my arms reach You front us with great mass; No flower ever opened So staunch a
Cities
Can we believe by an effort Comfort our hearts: It is not waste all this, Not placed here in disgust, Street after street, Each patterned alike, No grace to lighten A single house of
Sea Poppies
Amber husk Fluted with gold, Fruit on the sand Marked with a rich grain, Treasure Spilled near the shrub-pines To bleach on the boulders: Your stalk has caught root Among wet pebbles And drift
At Ithaca
Over and back, The long waves crawl And track the sand with foam; Night darkens, and the sea Takes on that desperate tone Of dark that wives put on When all their love is
Helen
All Greece hates The still eyes in the white face, The lustre as of olives Where she stands, And the white hands. All Greece reviles The wan face when she smiles, Hating it deeper
The Mysteries Remain
The mysteries remain, I keep the same Cycle of seed-time And of sun and rain; Demeter in the grass, I multiply, Renew and bless Bacchus in the vine; I hold the law, I keep
Wash of Cold River
Wash of cold river In a glacial land, Ionian water, Chill, snow-ribbed sand, Drift of rare flowers, Clear, with delicate shell – Like leaf enclosing Frozen lily-leaf, Camellia texture, Colder than a rose; Wind-flower
Heat
O wind, rend open the heat, Cut apart the heat, Rend it to tatters. Fruit cannot drop Through this thick air Fruit cannot fall into heat That presses up and blunts The points of
Acon
Bear me to Dictaeus, And to the steep slopes; To the river Erymanthus. I choose spray of dittany, Cyperum, frail of flower, Buds of myrrh, All-healing herbs, Close pressed in calathes. For she lies