They fall,
the apple-flowers;
nor softer grace has Aphrodite
in the heaven afar,
nor at so fair a pace
open the flower-petals
as your face bends down,
while, breath on breath,
your mouth wanders
from my mouth o’er my face.
What have I left
to bring you in this place,
already sweet with violets?
(those you brought
with swathes of earliest grass,
forest and meadow balm,
flung from your giant arms
for us to rest upon.)
Fair are these petals
broken by your feet;
your horse’s hooves
tread softer than a deer’s;
your eyes, startled,
are like the deer eyes
while your heart
trembles more than the deer.
O earth, O god,
O forest, stream or river,
what shall I bring
that all the day hold back,
that Dawn remember Love
and rest upon her bed,
and Zeus, forgetful not of Danæ or Maia,
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.
The Pool
ARE you alive?
I touch you.
You quiver like a sea-fish.
I cover you with my net.
What are you—banded one?