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.



About this poem
"Mid-Day" was published in "Sea Garden" (Constable and Company Ltd., 1916).

About H.D.
Hilda Doolittle was born on Sept. 10, 1886, in Bethlehem, Penn. A member of the imagist movement, her collections include "Sea Garden" (Houghton Mifflin, 1916) and "Helen in Egypt" (Grove Press, 1961). She died on Sept. 27, 1961.

***
The Academy of American Poets is a nonprofit, mission-driven organization, whose aim is to make poetry available to a wider audience. Email The Academy at poem-a-day[at]poets.org.


This poem is in the public domain. Originally published in Poem-a-Day, www.poets.org. Distributed by King Features Syndicate