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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
Thank
Looked
Didn
Anything
Look
Looks
Mean
Daffodils
Daffodil

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A slight wind shakes the seed-pods my thoughts are spent as the black seeds.
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Pompeii has nothing to teach us, we know crack of volcanic fissure, slow flow of terrible lava, pressure on heart, lungs, the brain about to burst its brittle case (what the skull can endure!)
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Dance until the earth dance.
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I could not accept from wisdom what love taught, woman is perfect.
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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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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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The fallen hazel-nuts, Stripped late of their green sheaths, The grapes, red-purple, Their berries Dripping with wine, Pomegranates already broken, And shrunken fig, And quinces untouched, I bring thee as offering.
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My eye-balls are glass, my limbs marble, my face fixed in its marble mask.
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Love has no charm when Love is swept to earth: you'd make a lop-winged god, frozen and contrite, of god up-darting, winged for passionate flight.
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The whole white world is ours.
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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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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 . . .
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Words were her plague and words were her redemption.
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No poetic phantasy but a biological reality, a fact: I am an entity like bird, insect, plant or sea-plant cell I live I am alive.
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Sing and your hell is heaven, your heaven less hell.
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I spit honey out of my mouth: nothing is second-best after the sweet of Eros.
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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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In my garden the winds have beaten the ripe lilies in my garden, the salt has wilted the first flakes of young narcissus.
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Passionate grave thought, belief enhanced, ritual returned and magic.
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