Hilda Doolittle (Хильда Дулитл)

Acon

Bear me to Dictaeus,
and to the steep slopes;
to the river Erymanthus. 

I choose spray of dittany,
cyperum, frail of flower,
buds of myrrh,
all-healing herbs,
close pressed in calathes. 

For she lies panting,
drawing sharp breath,
broken with harsh sobs.
she, Hyella,
whom no god pities.

1. Sitalkas
2. Lethe
3. At Eleusis
4. Orion Dead
5. From Citron-Bower

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Количество обращений к стихотворению: 1766

Последние стихотворения

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