Monday, February 6, 2017

"The Poet's Corner..."

Hilda Doolittle (HD)

Each of us like you 
has died once, 
has passed through drift of wood-leaves, 
cracked and bent 
and tortured and unbent 
in the winter-frost, 
the burnt into gold points, 
lighted afresh, 
crisp amber, scales of gold-leaf, 
gold turned and re-welded 
in the sun; 

each of us like you 
has died once, 
each of us has crossed an old wood-path 
and found the winter-leaves 
so golden in the sun-fire 
that even the live wood-flowers 
were dark. 

Not the gold on the temple-front 
where you stand 
is as gold as this, 
not the gold that fastens your sandals, 
nor thee gold reft 
through your chiselled locks, 
is as gold as this last year's leaf, 
not all the gold hammered and wrought 
and beaten 
on your lover's face. 
brow and bare breast 
is as golden as this: 

each of us like you 
has died once, 
each of us like you 
stands apart, like you 
fit to be worshipped.

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