copied into an old journal & rediscovered
from The Flowering of the Rod
by H.D.
I go where I love and where I am loved
into the snow,
I go to the things I love
with no thought of duty or pity,
I go where I belong, inexorably,
as the rain that has lain long
in the furrow. I have given
or would have given
life to the grain
but if it will not grow or ripen
with the rain of beauty,
the rain will return to the cloud.
The harvester sharpens his steel on the stone,
but this is not our field,
we have not sown this,
pitiless, pitiless, let us leave
the place-of-a-skull
to those who fashioned it.
