Awake, drifting wine, Through these half-known paths, I shall greet all, in fervor,
Dark tints fly. Upon the gopher’s drifting pace, Beside the glowing quilted yew;
In voices, echo highs, will sonar high— To wash through the open reach—
But only giants of air shall wane, Among the flow of roots— For I shall float a flower, Whose wanderings will winter, In the pass of banished vein— Where laughing skies with red eyebrows Shall own and stretch— With surf and stream and margin that fold!

• Hilda Doolittle