Hilda (Doolittle) Aldington
We fled inland with our flocks,
we pastured them in hollows,
cut off from the wind
and the salt track of the marsh.
We wandered from pine-hills
through oak and scrub-oak tangles,
we broke hyssop and bramble,
we caught flower and new bramble-fruit
in our hair: we laughed
as each branch whipped back,
we tore our feet in half buried rocks
and knotted roots and acorn-cups.
We forgot—we worshipped,
we parted green from green,
we sought further thickets,
we dipped our ankles
through leaf-mould and earth,
and wood and wood-bank enchanted us—
and the feel of the clefts in the bark,
and the slope between tree and tree—
and wood to wood
and hill to hill
and the forest after it.
We were enchanted with the fields,
the tufts of coarse grass
in the shorter grass—
we loved all this.
But now, our boat climbs—hesitates—drops—
O be swift—
we have always known you wanted us.