Abstract
surges in some far country of her imagination. There is perhaps no apter entrance to the H. D. canon. Her purity and hardness and coldness, her alleged classicism, are qualities of loneliness, a metaphysical estrangement that confronts her at every moment with the perilous condition of her own identity. And it is precisely this loneliness that calls forth her poems, those words through which she anxiously seeks connection at once with the solid ground of some remote past and the shifting ground of the present. H. D. is a primary example of Williams' contention that, after all, poetry is made out of words and not out of ideas.2 For H. D. ultimately, all reality, including the reality of one's self, is made out of words, or some solid equivalent. And only words are not lonely. The relevance of Flint's observation is confirmed by H. D.'s first two volumes, Sea Garden and The God.3 It is a world of stark, pristine
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