In my British Modern lit class, we learned that the following poem by HD has very sexual undertones. Who would have thought? I guess most everything can be turned into a "that's what she said" moment:
Oread
WHIRL up, sea—
Whirl your pointed pines.
Splash your great pines
On our rocks.
Hurl your green over us-
Cover us with your pools of fir.
It's still a beautiful imagist poem, but I will never think of it the same again.
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