"... A girl was coming up the trace,
pausing for breath, and though the light was behind her
and the garden glaring, by the slow, pelvic pace
that made men rest on their shovels cleaning the pens
and the gardener pause from burning leaves on the lawn
a heap in his hands, Maud knew the gait was Helen's
but the almond eyes were hooded in the smooth face
of arrogant ebony. Maud tugged off a glove
finger by finger, prepared for the coming farce.
Slow as the liner she came up the stone-flagged walk
in her black church dress — a touch of the widow there —
then paused at the morning-glory to wrench a stalk
head-down, stripping its yellow petals tear by tear.
My bloody allamandas! Maud swore. And, naturally,
being you, you want me to leave the verandah,
or maybe I'll ask you up for a spot of tea.
Oh Mother of God, another allamanda!
She'll wreck the blooming garden if I don't come down. ...
... Those lissome calves,
that waist that swayed like a palm was her island's weather,
its clouded impulses of doing things by halves,
lowering her voice to match its muttering waves,
the deep sigh of night that came from its starlit leaves."
— Omeros chapter XXIII canto III.