The hills sleep. If I put my hand on one, I would feel the vast heave of its breath. I would start away before it awakened And shook the world from its shoulders. A cicada's cry deepens the hot silence. The hills open To show a slope of poppies, Ardent, noble, heroic, A flare, a great flame of orange; Giving sleepy, brittle scent That stings the lungs. A creeping wind slips through them like a ferret; they bow and dance, answering Beauty's voice... The horse whinnies. I dismount And tie him to the grey worn fence. I set myself against the javelins of grass and sun; And climb the rounded breast, That flows like a sea-wave. The summit crackles with heat, there is no shelter, no hollow from the flagellating glare. I lie down and look at the sky, shading my eyes. My body becomes strange, the sun takes it and changes it, it does not feel, it is like the body of another. The air blazes. The air is diamond. Small noises move among the grass... Blackly, A hawk mounts, mounts in the inane Seeking the star-road, Seeking the end... But there is no end. Here, in this light, there is no end.... Elegy for an Enemy (For G. H.) Say, does that stupid earth Where they have laid her, Bind still her sullen mirth, Mirth which betrayed her? Do the lush grasses hold, Greenly and glad, That brittle-perfect gold She alone had? Smugly the common crew, Over their knitting, Mourn her -- as butchers do Sheep-throats they're slitting! She was my enemy, One of the best of them. Would she come back to me, God damn the rest of them! Damn them, the flabby, fat, Sleek little darlings! We gave them tit for tat, Snarlings for snarlings! Squashy pomposities, Shocked at our violence, Let not one tactful hiss Break her new silence! Maids of antiquity, Look well upon her; Ice was her chastity, Spotless her honor. Neighbors, with breasts of snow, Dames of much virtue, How she could flame and glow! Lord, how she hurt you! She was a woman, and Tender -- at times! (Delicate was her hand) One of her crimes! Hair that strayed elfinly, Lips red as haws, You, with the ready lie, Was that the cause? Rest you, my enemy, Slain without fault, Life smacks but tastelessly Lacking your salt! Stuck in a bog whence naught May catapult me, Come from the grave, long-sought, Come and insult me! WE knew that sugared stuff Poisoned the other; Rough as the wind is rough, Sister and brother! Breathing the ether clear Others forlorn have found -- Oh, for that peace austere She and her scorn have found! Biographical Note: