Poem by Hilda Doolittle

Acon

Bear me to Dictaeus,
and to the steep slopes;
to the river Erymanthus. 

I choose spray of dittany,
cyperum, frail of flower,
buds of myrrh,
all-healing herbs,
close pressed in calathes. 

For she lies panting,
drawing sharp breath,
broken with harsh sobs.
she, Hyella,
whom no god pities.

1. From Citron-Bower
2. Holy Satyr
3. The Mysteries Remain
4. Thetis
5. Flute Song

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