#AmericanWriters
Where the slow river meets the tide, a red swan lifts red wings and darker beak, and underneath the purple down
Stars wheel in purple, yours is no… as Hesperus, nor yet so great a st… as bright Aldeboran or Sirius, nor yet the stained and brilliant… stars turn in purple, glorious to…
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…
YOU are as gold as the half—ripe grain that merges to gold again, as white as the white rain that beats through
O wind, rend open the heat, cut apart the heat, rend it to tatters. Fruit cannot drop through this thick air—
O be swift— we have always known you wanted us… We fled inland with our flocks. we pastured them in hollows, cut off from the wind
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,
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
The white violet is scented on its stalk, the sea—violet fragile as agate, lies fronting all the wind
Rose, harsh rose, marred and with stint of petals, meagre flower, thin, sparse of leaf, more precious
Will you glimmer on the sea? Will you fling your spear—head On the shore? What note shall we pitch? We have a song,
Can we believe—by an effort comfort our hearts: it is not waste all this, not placed here in disgust, street after street,
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