You beat against me,
Immense waves, filthy with refuse.
I am the last upright of a smashed break-water,
But you shall not crush me
Though you bury me in foaming slime
And hiss your hatred about me.
You break over me, cover me;
I shudder at the contact;
Yet I pierce through you
And stand up, torn, dripping, shaken,
But whole and fierce.
REFLECTIONS
I
Steal out with me
Over the moss and the daffodils.
Come to the temple,
Hung with sprays from untrimmed hedges.
I bring you a token
From the golden-haired revellers,
From the mad procession.
Come,
Flute girls shall pipe to us—
Their beautiful fingers!—
They are yellow-throated birds.
They send perfumes from dawn-scented garments,
Bending above us.
Come,
Bind your hair with white poplar,
Let your lips be sweet,
Wild roses of Paestum.