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Wash of cold river in a glacial land, Ionian water, chill, snow—ribbed sand, drift of rare flowers,
The white violet is scented on its stalk, the sea—violet fragile as agate, lies fronting all the wind
Amber husk fluted with gold, fruit on the sand marked with a rich grain, treasure
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,
Are you alive? I touch you. You quiver like a sea—fish. I cover you with my net. What are you —banded one?
Rose, harsh rose, marred and with stint of petals, meagre flower, thin, sparse of leaf, more precious
Over and back, the long waves crawl and track the sand with foam; night darkens, and the sea takes on that desperate tone
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),
All Greece hates the still eyes in the white face, the lustre as of olives where she stands, and the white hands.
I saw the first pear as it fell— the honey—seeking, golden—banded, the yellow swarm was not more fleet than I,
You are clear O rose, cut in rock, hard as the descent of hail. I could scrape the colour from the petals
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,
Bear me to Dictaeus, and to the steep slopes; to the river Erymanthus. I choose spray of dittany, cyperum, frail of flower,
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…