There in the sun-frayed hollow, The stones still stood, Hands retreating through the massive— Wrapped in their threads. Among the fringes of yarrow— We lived the years in time. Between this echo and the glassy light We felt, rolling yearn, Soft evanescent, deeper grows, In the tumble of swift weather. Skyward tangles bends And you as the dew drips slow, Will you hide your blossoms in twinkling?
Embrace flows—river dark, Still more in the forked curves— Let color be known, while the yellow is marked Of fading streaming rights!

• Hilda Doolittle