We fled inland with our flocks.we pastured them in hollows,cut off from the windand the salt track of the marsh.We worshipped inland—we stepped past wood-flowers,we forgot your tang,we brushed wood-grass.We wandered from pine-hillsthrough oak and scrub-oak tangles,we broke hyssop and bramble,we caught flower and new bramble-fruitin our hair: we laughedas each branch whipped back,we tore…
You quiver like a sea-fish.I cover you with my net.What are you – banded one?
Than any cool godIn a chamber underLycia’s far coast,Than any high godWho touches us notHere in the seeded grass.Aye, than ArgestesScattering the broken leaves.
to the river Erymanthus.I choose spray of dittany,cyperum, frail of flower,buds of myrrh,all-healing herbs,close pressed in calathes.For she lies panting,drawing sharp breath,broken with harsh sobs.she, Hyella,whom no god pities.
never more will the rain.Never moreshall we find you brightin the snow and wind.The snow is melted,the snow is gone,and you are flown:Like a bird out of our hand,like a light out of our heart,you are gone.
and track the sand with foam;night darkens, and the seatakes on that desperate toneof dark that wives put onwhen all their love is done.Over and back,the tangled thread falls slack,over and up and on;over and all is sewn;now while I bind the end,I wish some fiery friendwould sweep impetuouslythese fingers from the loom.My weary thoughtsplay…
On the shore?What note shall we pitch?We have a song,On the bank we share our arrows—The loosed string tells our note:O flight,Bring her swiftly to our song.She is great,We measure her by the pine-trees.
some lovely, perilous thing,orchids piled in a great sheath,as who would say (in a dream),‘I send you this,who left the blue veinsof your throat unkissed.’Why was it that your hands(that never took mine),your hands that I could seedrift over the orchid-headsso carefully,your hands, so fragile, sure to liftso gently, the fragile flower-stuff–ah, ah, how was…
that merges to gold again,as white as the white rainthat beats throughthe half-opened flowersof the great flower tuftsthick on the black limbsof an Illyrian apple bough.Can honey distill such fragranceas your bright hair-for your face is as fair as rain,yet as rain that lies clearon white honey-comb,lends radiance to the white wax,so your hair on…
Every way ends, every road,every foot-path leads at lastto the hill-crest —then you retrace your steps,or find the same slope on the other side,precipitate.I have had enough —border-pinks, clove-pinks, wax-lilies,herbs, sweet-cress.O for some sharp swish of a branch —there is no scent of resinin this place,no taste of bark, of coarse weeds,aromatic, astringent —only border…
