The light passes from ridge to ridge, from flower to flower— the hepaticas, wide—spread under the light

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

Are you alive? I touch you. You quiver like a sea—fish. I cover you with my net. What are you —banded one?

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

I saw the first pear as it fell— the honey—seeking, golden—banded, the yellow swarm was not more fleet than I,

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

Amber husk fluted with gold, fruit on the sand marked with a rich grain, treasure

Thou art come at length More beautiful Than any cool god In a chamber under Lycia’s far coast,

YOU are as gold as the half—ripe grain that merges to gold again, as white as the white rain that beats through

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