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.

by Hilda Doolittle

Other poems of DOOLITTLE (33)

Comments (2)

This is only the first part of this (great) poem
this shit is to hard!