Pursuit

What do I care

that the stream is trampled,

the sand on the stream-bank

still holds the print of your foot:

5

the heel is cut deep.

I see another mark

on the grass ridge of the bank—

it points toward the wood-path.

I have lost the third

10

in the packed earth.

But here

a wild-hyacinth stalk is snapped:

the purple buds—half ripe—

show deep purple

15

where your heel pressed.

A patch of flowering grass,

low, trailing—

you brushed this:

the green stems show yellow-green

20

where you lifted—turned the earth-side

to the light:

this and a dead leaf-spine,

split across,

show where you passed.

25

You were swift, swift!

here the forest ledge slopes—

rain has furrowed the roots.

Your hand caught at this;

the root snapped under your weight.

30

I can almost follow the note

where it touched this slender tree

and the next answered—

and the next.

And you climbed yet further!

35

you stopped by the dwarf-cornel—

whirled on your heels,

doubled on your track.

This is clear—

you fell on the downward slope,

40

you dragged a bruised thigh—you limped—

you clutched this larch.

Did your head, bent back,

search further—

clear through the green leaf-moss

45

of the larch branches?

Did you clutch,

stammer with short breath and gasp:

wood-daemons grant life—

give life—I am almost lost.

50

For some wood-daemon

has lightened your steps.

I can find no trace of you

in the larch-cones and the underbrush.

—
H. D.

Sea Garden, 1916