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

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

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

The mysteries remain, I keep the same cycle of seed—time and of sun and rain; Demeter in the grass,

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

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),

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

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

Where the slow river meets the tide, a red swan lifts red wings and darker beak, and underneath the purple down

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

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,