Nossis by Hilda Doolittle — Read

I thought to hear him speak / the girl might rise / and make the garden silver, / as the white moon breaks, / "Nossis," he cried, "a flame."

I said: / "a girl that's dead / some hundred years; / a poet -- what of that? / for in the islands, / in the haunts of Greek Ionia, / Rhodes and Cyprus, / girls are cheap."