lifted, of the flower.

[38]

[38]

PHAEDRA

Think, O my soul,

of the red sand of Crete;

think of the earth; the heat

burnt fissures like the great

backs of the temple serpents;

think of the world you knew;

as the tide crept, the land

burned with a lizard-blue

where the dark sea met the sand.

Think, O my soul—

what power has struck you blind—

is there no desert-root, no forest-berry

pine-pitch or knot of fir

known that can help the soul

caught in a force, a power,

passionless, not its own?

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