Poem by Hilda Doolittle

Flute Song

Little scavenger away,
touch not the door,
beat not the portal down,
cross not the sill,
silent until
my song, bright and shrill,
breathes out its lay.

Little scavenger avaunt,
tempt me with jeer and taunt,
yet you will wait to-day;
for it were surely ill
to mock and shout and revel;
it were more fit to tell
with flutes and calathes,
your mother’s praise.

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

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