Hilda Doolittle

Wash of cold river  
in a glacial land,  
Ionian water,  
chill, snow-ribbed sand,   
drift of rare flowers,   
clear, with delicate shell-   
like leaf enclosing   
frozen lily-leaf,  
camellia texture,  
colder than a rose;  
that keeps the breath  
of the north-wind —  
these and none other;  
intimate thoughts and kind  
reach out to share  
the treasure of my mind,   
intimate hands and dear  
drawn garden-ward and sea-ward   
all the sheer rapture  
that I would take  
to mould a clear  
and frigid statue;  
rare, of pure texture,  
beautiful space and line,  
marble to grace  
your inaccessible shrine.