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Acon

 Bear me to Dictaeus,
and to the steep slopes;
to the river Erymanthus.
I choose spray of dittany, cyperum, frail of flower, buds of myrrh, all-healing herbs, close pressed in calathes.
For she lies panting, drawing sharp breath, broken with harsh sobs.
she, Hyella, whom no god pities.

by Hilda Doolittle
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