Poem by Hilda Doolittle

Heat

O wind, rend open the heat,
cut apart the heat,
rend it to tatters.

Fruit cannot drop
through this thick air--
fruit cannot fall into heat
that presses up and blunts
the points of pears
and rounds the grapes.

Cut the heat--
plough through it,
turning it on either side
of your path.

1. Epigrams
2. From Citron-Bower
3. Holy Satyr
4. At Eleusis
5. At Ithaca

Archibald Lampman Heat ("From plains that reel to southward, dim")

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