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 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

Leda

Where the slow river Meets the tide, A red swan lifts red wings And darker beak, And underneath the purple down Of his soft breast Uncurls his coral feet. Through the deep purple Of

Adonis

1. Each of us like you Has died once, Has passed through drift of wood-leaves, Cracked and bent And tortured and unbent In the winter-frost, The burnt into gold points, Lighted afresh, Crisp amber,

Sea Rose

Rose, harsh rose, Marred and with stint of petals, Meagre flower, thin, Sparse of leaf, More precious Than a wet rose Single on a stem You are caught in the drift. Stunted, with small