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| Rhoda at SE Halt -- Color reduction woodcut + solar plate |
I do not know--your days and hours pass
like the boughs of forest trees and the smooth green of forest rides to a hound
running on the scent. But there is no single
scent, no single body for me to follow.
And I have no face. I am like the foam that races over the beach or the
moonlight that falls arrowlike here on a tin can, here on a spike of the mailed
sea holly, or a bone or a half-eaten boat.
I am whirled down caverns, and flap like paper against endless
corridors, and must press my hand against the wall to draw myself back.
The Waves (94)
March 11, 1932 Dora Carrington commits suicide
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