English poetry

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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 panting,
Drawing sharp breath,
Broken with harsh sobs.
She, Hyella,
Whom no god pities.


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Poem Acon - Hilda Doolittle