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She did not look at the daffodils. They didn't mean anything. She looked at the daffodils. She said, 'Thank you for the daffodils.

Hilda Doolittle

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Hilda Doolittle
Look
Looks
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Daffodils
Daffodil
Thank
Looked
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Anything

More quotes by Hilda Doolittle

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I testify to rainbow feathers, to the span of heaven and walls of colour, the colonnades of jasper.
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For you are abstract, making no mistake, slurring no word in the rhythm you make, the poem, writ in the air.
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Could beauty be beaten out, O youth the cities have sent to strike at each other's strength, it is you who have kept her alight.
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The race may or may not be to the swift, but tell me, is it likely that the fight will be entrusted to the dead?
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War wreaked on you his hideous ravishment We, we alone, Nereids inviolate, Remain to weep, with the sea-birds to chant: Corinth is lost, Corinth is desolate.
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But beauty is set apart, beauty is cast by the sea, a barren rock, beauty is set about with wrecks of ships.
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Love is a garment riven in the light that rises from Parnassus, showing the night is over.
Hilda Doolittle
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We are voyagers, discoverers of the not-known, the unrecorded we have no map possibly we will reach haven, heaven.
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For this beauty, beauty without strength, chokes out life.
Hilda Doolittle
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I fear no man, no woman flower does not fear bird, insect nor adder.
Hilda Doolittle
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Take what the old-church found in Mithra's tomb, candle and script and bell, take what the new-church spat upon and broke and shattered.
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I will be free, no lover's kiss to bind me to earth, no bliss of love to counteract actual bliss.
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Lovers may come and go, there was the memory of blood, the low call.
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Cheat me not with time, with the dull ache of flesh, for all flesh turns, even the loveliest ankle and frail thigh, to bitterest dust.
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Passionate grave thought, belief enhanced, ritual returned and magic.
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Not God with wine, nor death, nor hate for a cry, but God with a song
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Until it seems the whole city will be covered with gold pollen shaken from the bell-towers, lilies plundered with the weight of massive bees . . .
Hilda Doolittle
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There must be real gods see, the painted gods how fair!
Hilda Doolittle
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War is a fevered god who takes alike maiden and king and clod.
Hilda Doolittle
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Let Love step down, open the clasped hands, forfeit the thorny crown, retrieve the garment that was whole, body and spirit one, spirit and soul.
Hilda Doolittle