“Mid-day” by Hilda Doolittle

The light beats upon me.
I am startled–
a split leaf crackles on the paved floor–
I am anguished–defeated.

A slight wind shakes the seed-pods–
my thoughts are spent
as the black seeds.
My thoughts tear me,
I dread their fever.
I am scattered in its whirl.
I am scattered like
the hot shrivelled seeds.

The shrivelled seeds
are spilt on the path–
the grass bends with dust,
the grape slips
under its crackled leaf:
yet far beyond the spent seed-pods,
and the blackened stalks of mint,
the poplar is bright on the hill,
the poplar spreads out,
deep-rooted among trees.

O poplar, you are great
among the hill-stones,
while I perish on the path
among the crevices of the rocks.

***

Not an uplifting poem, but the imagery pleases me. My mind is too jumbled right now to produce something of my own. The poem happens to be reading for a class.