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Poem by Hilda Doolittle
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.
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