And in quietude lift, Through darkling scents, laden with light, Where suns spread palm limbs— Death blooms between the trails of heads, They hang in the warmth— Calling slowly to lands unheard— The mellow sun, the sorrows and relics had found— Crouching in angles, sitting deep—in it being hailed. I march along gnarled roots— Amid shots, tender— With each tearing drop of sound, Resolves to the gentle, dry heartache of spring. Frames arch in softened tons, While evenings dangle low, Over leaping trails, straining hours,
Inward half-kisses do return, As the sun shall bleed the wild.

• Hilda Doolittle