white myrtle-flesh.

I was splintered and torn:

the hill-path mounted

swifter than my feet.

Could a daemon avenge this hurt,

I would cry to him—could a ghost,

I would shout—O evil,

follow this god,

taunt him with his evil and his vice.

III

Shall I hurl myself from here,

shall I leap and be nearer you?

Shall I drop, beloved, beloved,

ankle against ankle?

Would you pity me, O white breast?

If I woke, would you pity me,

would our eyes meet?

Have you heard,

do you know how I climbed this rock?

My breath caught, I lurched forward—

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