Helen Hoyt

From “The Harp”

Strike—strike!
Already the strings of me quiver,
Vibrate,
With the imagining of your fingers …
Strike!—set free these aching sounds!
Strike harshly, wildly—loud,
O strong, beautiful!—
Till the strings cry out,
Till the strings are torn with the fierceness of your hands’ delight,
With the agony of their own music,
With the agony of their releasing.
Broken.
Still.

I HAVE found my beloved in the time of apple blossoms—

O pink blossoms, white blossoms, fragrance of love!

I have found my beloved in the time of apple blossoms—

O beauty and fragrance!

Soon will the apples push out their green sides,

Soon will they round into happy red—

The boughs of the trees will bend and be weighed down with that ripe burden,

With that rich burden of fruit,

That fragrance of red!

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