A poem by H.D. (Hilda Doolittle)
| I |
| You are clear, O rose, cut in rock, hard as the descent of hail. I could scrape the colour from the petal, like spilt dye from a rock. If I could break you I could break a tree. If I could stir I could break a tree, I could break you. |
| II |
| O wind, rend open the heat, cut apart the heat, rend it sideways. Fruit can not drop through this thick air: fruit can not 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. |
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Philo Culturo 