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,
close pressed in calathes.
For she lies panting,
drawing sharp breath,
broken with harsh sobs.
whom no god pities.
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Comments about this poem (Acon by Hilda Doolittle )
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