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

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

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,

White, O white face— from disenchanted days wither alike dark rose and fiery bays: no gift within our hands,

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

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

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

Bear me to Dictaeus, and to the steep slopes; to the river Erymanthus. I choose spray of dittany, cyperum, frail of flower,

Silver dust lifted from the earth, higher than my arms reach, you have mounted. O silver,

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 w…