Imagists, at least the early ones, tended to write short poems. That does not make them bad poems. Hilda Doolitle (“H.D.” in her life time) was one such: she did write longer, but here are two of her shorter poems.
The city is peopled
with spirits, not ghosts, O my love:Though they crowded between
and usurped the kiss of my mouth
their breath was your gift,
their beauty, your life.Reed,
slashed and torn
but doubly rich—
such great heads as yours
drift upon temple-steps,
but you are shattered
in the wind.Myrtle-bark
is flecked from you,
scales are dashed
from your stem,
sand cuts your petal,
furrows it with hard edge,
like flint
on a bright stone.Yet though the whole wind
slash at your bark,
you are lifted up,
aye—though it hiss
to cover you with froth.Hilda Doolittle