h.

Did your head, bent back,
search further--
clear through the green leaf-moss
of the larch branches?

Did you clutch,
stammer with short breath and gasp:
_wood-daemons grant life--
give life--I am almost lost._

For some wood-daemon
has lightened your steps.
I can find no trace of you
in the larch-cones and the underbrush.

THE CONTEST

I

Your stature is modelled
with straight tool-edge:
you are chiselled like rocks
that are eaten into by the sea.

With the turn and grasp of your wrist
and the chords' stretch,
there is a glint like worn brass.

The ridge of your breast is taut,
and under each the shadow is sharp,
and between the clenched muscles
of your slender hips.

From the circle of your cropped hair
there is light,
and about your male torse
and the foot-arch and the straight ankle.

II

You stand rigid and mighty--
granite and the ore in rocks;
a great band clasps your forehead
and its heavy twists of gold.

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.

THE WIND SLEEPERS

Whiter
than the crust
left by the tide,
we are stung by the hurled sand
and the broken shells.