You are white—a limb of cypress
bent under a weight of snow.
You are splendid,
your arms are fire;
you have entered the hill-straits—
a sea treads upon the hill-slopes.
III
Myrtle is about your head,
you have bent and caught the spray:
each leaf is sharp
against the lift and furrow
of your bound hair.
The narcissus has copied the arch
of your slight breast:
your feet are citron-flowers,
your knees, cut from white-ash,
your thighs are rock-cistus.
Your chin lifts straight
from the hollow of your curved throat.
Your shoulders are level—
they have melted rare silver
for their breadth.
SEA LILY
Reed,
slashed and torn
but doubly rich—
such great heads as yours
drift upon temple-steps,
but you are shattered
in the wind.
Myrtle-bark
is flecked from you,
scales are dashed
from your stem,
sand cuts your petal,
furrows it with hard edge,
like flint
on a bright stone.
Yet though the whole wind
slash at your bark,
you are lifted up,
aye—though it hiss
to cover you with froth.