Where The Slow River By Hilda Doolittle

Where the slow river meets the tide, a red swan lifts red wings and darker beak, and underneath the purple down of his soft breast…

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Each Of Us Like You By Hilda Doolittle

1. Each of us like you has died once, has passed through drift of wood-leaves, cracked and bent and tortured and unbent in the winter-frost,…

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Wash Of Cold River By Hilda Doolittle

Wash of cold river in a glacial land, Ionian water, chill, snow-ribbed sand, drift of rare flowers, clear, with delicate shell- like leaf enclosing frozen…

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Can We Believe By Hilda Doolittle

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

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Silver Dust By Hilda Doolittle

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

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Bear Me To Dictaeus By Hilda Doolittle

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

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The Mysteries Remain By Hilda Doolittle

The mysteries remain, I keep the same cycle of seed-time and of sun and rain; Demeter in the grass, I multiply, renew and bless Bacchus…

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Amber Husk By Hilda Doolittle

Amber husk fluted with gold, fruit on the sand marked with a rich grain, treasure spilled near the shrub-pines to bleach on the boulders: your…

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Over And Back By Hilda Doolittle

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

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All Greece Hates By Hilda Doolittle

All Greece hates the still eyes in the white face, the lustre as of olives where she stands, and the white hands. All Greece reviles…

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Rose, Harsh Rose By Hilda Doolittle

Rose, harsh rose, marred and with stint of petals, meagre flower, thin, sparse of leaf, more precious than a wet rose single on a stem…

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I Have Had Enough By Hilda Doolittle

I have had enough. I gasp for breath. Every way ends, every road, every foot-path leads at last to the hill-crest — then you retrace…

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I First Tasted Under By Hilda Doolittle

I first tasted under Apollo’s lips, love and love sweetness, I, Evadne; my hair is made of crisp violets or hyacinth which the wind combs…

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I Should Have Thought By Hilda Doolittle

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…

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From Citron-Bower Be Her By Hilda Doolittle

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…

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O Hymen King By Hilda Doolittle

O Hymen king. Hymen, O Hymen king, what bitter thing is this? what shaft, tearing my heart? what scar, what light, what fire searing my…

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