She gathers speed, In summer waves, dipping, Leaping, coursing through tints— And the vision pains of Weightless pleasures, hidden in puddles of peace— 214, all the thawed light, engaged, By the untold mystery. Among all the bright obliques, the hawthorn thorn Tickling each bone— She walks, from sparrow to stone and babbling, Disloat of oozing softness, Between the nettles, past the crawling plume, Into sight— To fall, her sweet laughter; To a tumble of twinkling dew. My reverence waits at ease In falling leaves, widening circles, And let all spirits pass. In gilded bloom, I join—for thus, this rage, can I also die like this?

• Hilda Doolittle