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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
Anything
Look
Looks
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Daffodils
Daffodil
Thank
Looked
Didn

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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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I spit honey out of my mouth: nothing is second-best after the sweet of Eros.
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A slight wind shakes the seed-pods my thoughts are spent as the black seeds.
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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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The stallion and his mare, unbridled, with arrow-pattern, are worked on. the blue cloth before the door of religion and inspiration.
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Maid of the luminous grey-eyes, Mistress of honey and marble implacable white thighs and Goddess, chaste daughter of Zeus.
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Lovers may come and go, there was the memory of blood, the low call.
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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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Ardent yet chill and formal, how I ache to tempt a chisel as a sculptor.
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Words were her plague and words were her redemption.
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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.
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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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(Those women whom the distaff no longer claims nor spun cloth) driven made, mad, mad by Bacchus.
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Luminous, unfearful high-priestesses, our fervour shall banish all evil.
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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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War is a fevered god who takes alike maiden and king and clod.
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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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The whole white world is ours.
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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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It is no madness to say you will fall, you great cities.
Hilda Doolittle