Cassandra

by Hilda Doolittle

Heat

O wind, rend open the heat,

cut apart the heat,

rend it to tatters.

Fruit cannot drop

through this thick air--

fruit cannot fall into heat

that presses up and blunts

the points of pears

and rounds the grapes.

Cut the heat--

plough through it,

turning it on either side

of your path. 

Orchard 

I saw the first pear

as it fell--

the honey-seeking, golden-banded,

the yellow swarm

was not more fleet than I,

(spare us from loveliness)

and I fell prostrate

crying:

you have flayed us

with your blossoms,

spare us the beauty

of fruit-trees.

The honey-seeking

paused not,

the air thundered their song,

and I alone was prostrate.

O rough hewn

god of the orchard,

I bring you an offering--

do you, alone unbeautiful,

son of the god,

spare us from loveliness:

these fallen hazel-nuts,

stripped late of their green sheaths,

grapes, red-purple,

their berries

dripping with wine,

pomegranates already broken,

and shrunken figs

and quinces untouched,

I bring you as offering. 

Cassandra

O Hymen king. 

Hymen, O Hymen king, 

what bitter thing is this? 

what shaft, tearing my heart? 

what scar, what light, what fire 

searing my eye-balls and my eyes with flame? 

nameless, O spoken name, 

king, lord, speak blameless Hymen. 

Why do you blind my eyes? 

why do you dart and pulse 

till all the dark is home, 

then find my soul 

and ruthless draw it back? 

scaling the scaleless, 

opening the dark? 

speak, nameless, power and might; 

when will you leave me quite? 

when will you break my wings 

or leave them utterly free 

to scale heaven endlessly? 

A bitter, broken thing, 

my heart, O Hymen lord, 

yet neither drought nor sword 

baffles men quite, 

why must they feign to fear 

my virgin glance? 

feigned utterly or real 

why do they shrink? 

my trance frightens them, 

breaks the dance, 

empties the market-place; 

if I but pass they fall 

back, frantically; 

must always people mock? 

unless they shrink and reel 

as in the temple 

at your uttered will. 

O Hymen king, 

lord, greatest, power, might, 

look for my face is dark, 

burnt with your light, 

your fire, O Hymen lord; 

is there none left 

can equal me 

in ecstasy, desire? 

is there none left 

can bear with me 

the kiss of your white fire? 

is there not one, 

Phrygian or frenzied Greek, 

poet, song-swept, or bard, 

one meet to take from me 

this bitter power of song, 

one fit to speak, Hymen, 

your praises, lord? 

May I not wed 

as you have wed? 

may it not break, beauty, 

from out my hands, my head, my feet? 

may Love not lie beside me 

till his heat 

burn me to ash? 

may he not comfort me, then, 

spent of all that fire and heat, 

still, ashen-white and cool 

as the wet laurels, 

white, before your feet 

step on the mountain-slope, 

before your fiery hand 

lift up the mantle 

covering flower and land, 

as a man lifts, 

O Hymen, from his bride, 

(cowering with woman eyes,) the veil? 

O Hymen lord, be kind.