Modern American Poetry

H.D.: Set Free to Prophesy 379

blossom,

and so die;

but I came home,

and the last archon saw

me reach the door, at dawn;

I did not even care what he might say ...

I waited for the crowd to mutter filth

and stone me from the altar,

but the new archon cried,

fresh honour to Miletus,

to Delia of Miletus who has found

a new brew of bay.... (CP,374)

They do not know the anguish and the exaltation of the inner self that lies
beneath the Imagist; they do not know me,

me, whom no man yet found,

only the forest-god

of the wet moss,

of the deep underground,

or of the dry rock

parching to the moon ... (CP,370)

They do not know that within her calm demeanor she has been pursued by a god:

how was it I,

who walked so circumspectly, yet was caught

in the arms of an angry lover,

who said,

late,

late,

I waited too long for you, Delia,

I will devour you,

love you into flame,

O late

my love,