Nor skin nor hide nor fleece Shall cover you, Nor curtain of crimson nor fine Shelter of cedar-wood be over you, Nor the fir-tree Nor the pine. Nor sight of whin nor gorse Nor river-yew, Nor fragrance of flowering bush, Nor wailing of reed-bird to waken you, Nor of linnet, Nor of thrush. Nor word nor touch nor sight Of lover, you Shall long through the night but for this: The roll of the full tide to cover you Without question, Without kiss.
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 the wan face when she smiles, hating it deeper still when it grows wan and white, remembering past enchantments and past ills. Greece sees unmoved, God’s daughter, born of love, the beauty of cool feet and slenderest knees, could love indeed the maid, only if she were laid, white ash amid funereal cypresses.
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.
Are you alive? I touch you. You quiver like a sea-fish. I cover you with my net. What are you--banded one?
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) I send you this, who left the blue veins of your throat unkissed. Why was it that your hands (that never took mine) your hands that I could see drift over the orchid heads so carefully, your hands, so fragile, sure to lift so gently, the fragile flower stuff-- ah, ah, how was it You never sent (in a dream) the very form, the very scent, not heavy, not sensuous, but perilous--perilous-- of orchids, piled in a great sheath, and folded underneath on a bright scroll some word: Flower sent to flower; for white hands, the lesser white, less lovely of flower leaf, or Lover to lover, no kiss, no touch, but forever and ever this.
You are as gold as the half-ripe grain that merges to gold again, as white as the white rain that beats through the half-opened flowers of the great flower tufts thick on the black limbs of an Illyrian apple bough. Can honey distill such fragrance as your bright hair-- for your face is as fair as rain, yet as rain that lies clear on white honey-comb, lends radiance to the white wax, so your hair on your brow casts light for a shadow.
The whole white world is ours, and the world, purple with rose-bays, bays, bush on bush, group, thicket, hedge and tree, dark islands in a sea of grey-green olive or wild white-olive, cut with the sudden cypress shafts, in clusters, two or three, or with one slender, single cypress-tree. Slid from the hill, as crumbling snow-peaks slide, citron on citron fill the valley, and delight waits till our spirits tire of forest, grove and bush and purple flower of the laurel-tree. Yet not one wearies, joined is each to each in happiness complete with bush and flower: ours is the wind-breath at the hot noon-hour, ours is the bee's soft belly and the blush of the rose-petal, lifted, of the flower.
On the paved parapet you will step carefully from amber stones to onyx flecked with violet, mingled with light, half showing the sea-grass and sea-sand underneath, reflecting your white feet and the gay strap crimson as lily-buds of Arion, and the gold that binds your feet. You will pass beneath the island disk (and myrtle-wood, the carved support of it) and the white stretch of its white beach, curved as the moon crescent or ivory when some fine hand chisels it: when the sun slips through the far edge, there is rare amber through the sea, and flecks of it glitter on the dolphin's back and jewelled halter and harness and bit as he sways under it.
H.D. was an American poet and writer born in 1886 and died in 1961. She was associated with the Imagist movement in poetry, which emphasized precise visual imagery and concise language. Her poetry frequently draws on classical mythology and ancient Greek literature, exploring themes of female identity, nature, and the trauma of war. Her early collection 'Sea Garden' exemplifies her characteristic style of short, free-verse poems with sharp, clear images. H.D. also wrote prose works, including the novel 'HERmione' and the memoir 'Tribute to Freud', which reflect her interest in psychoanalysis and personal history. In her later long poem 'Helen in Egypt', she reinterprets the myth of Helen of Troy from a feminist viewpoint. Her innovative approach to imagery and her engagement with classical sources influenced subsequent modernist poets. H.D. is regarded as a significant figure in twentieth-century American poetry.
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