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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
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Daffodils
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Thank
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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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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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(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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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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It is no madness to say you will fall, you great cities.
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I myself have seen the floating ships And nothing will ever be the same The shouts, The harrowing voices within the house. I stand apart with an army: My mind is graven with ships.
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Not God with wine, nor death, nor hate for a cry, but God with a song
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Sing and your hell is heaven, your heaven less hell.
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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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My eye-balls are glass, my limbs marble, my face fixed in its marble mask.
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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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You are wind in a stark tree, you are the stark tree unbent, you are a strung bow, you are an arrow.
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Love, why have you sought the horde of spearsmen, why the tent Achilles pitched beside the river-ford?
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There is no man can take, there is no pool can slake, ultimately I am alone ultimately I am done.
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Long hours trail in their purple and long years are lost in just this moment while our souls are near, our mouths separate.
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I fear no man, no woman flower does not fear bird, insect nor adder.
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Lovers may come and go, there was the memory of blood, the low call.
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The elixir of life, the philosopher's stone is yours if you surrender sterile logic, trivial reason.
Hilda Doolittle
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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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