Hilda Doolittle (Хильда Дулитл)
Heat
O wind, rend open the heat, cut apart the heat, rend it to tatters. Fruit cannot drop through this thick air-- fruit cannot fall into heat that presses up and blunts the points of pears and rounds the grapes. Cut the heat-- plough through it, turning it on either side of your path.
Hilda Doolittle’s other poems:
