HD or Hilda Doolitte

Hilda Doolittle

Leda

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 
uncurls his coral feet. 

Through the deep purple 
of the dying heat 
of sun and mist, 
the level ray of sun-beam 
has caressed 
the lily with dark breast, 
and flecked with richer gold 
its golden crest. 

Where the slow lifting 
of the tide, 
floats into the river 
and slowly drifts 
among the reeds, 
and lifts the yellow flags, 
he floats 
where tide and river meet. 

Ah kingly kiss -- 
no more regret 
nor old deep memories 
to mar the bliss; 
where the low sedge is thick, 
the gold day-lily 
outspreads and rests 
beneath soft fluttering 
of red swan wings 
and the warm quivering 
of the red swan's breast. 

Oread

Whirl up, sea— 
Whirl your pointed pines. 
Splash your great pines 
On our rocks. 
Hurl your green over us— 
Cover us with your pools of fir. 

Sea Rose

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—
you are caught in the drift.

Stunted, with small leaf,
you are flung on the sand,
you are lifted
in the crisp sand
that drives in the wind.

Can the spice-rose
drip such acrid fragrance
hardened in a leaf?

From: The Walls Do Not Fall.

Too old to be useful
(whether in years of experience,

we are the same lot)
not old enough to be dead,

we are the keepers of the secret,
the carriers, the spinners

of the rare intangible thread
that binds all humanity

to ancient wisdom,
to antiquity;

our joy is unique, to us,
grape, knife, cup, wheat

are symbols in eternity,
and every concrete object

has abstract value, is timeless
in the dream parallel

whose relative sigil has not changed
since Nineveh and Babel.