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War is a fevered god who takes alike maiden and king and clod.

Hilda Doolittle

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Hilda Doolittle
King
Kings
Takes
War
Fevered
Clod
Maiden
Maidens
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Lift up our eyes to you? no, God, we stare and stare, upon a nearer thing that greets us here, Death, violent and near.
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Ardent yet chill and formal, how I ache to tempt a chisel as a sculptor.
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I could not accept from wisdom what love taught, woman is perfect.
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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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A slight wind shakes the seed-pods my thoughts are spent as the black seeds.
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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 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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(Those women whom the distaff no longer claims nor spun cloth) driven made, mad, mad by Bacchus.
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I spit honey out of my mouth: nothing is second-best after the sweet of Eros.
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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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Dance until the earth dance.
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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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The elixir of life, the philosopher's stone is yours if you surrender sterile logic, trivial reason.
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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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She did not look at the daffodils. They didn't mean anything. She looked at the daffodils. She said, 'Thank you for the daffodils.
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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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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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The heart the heart the heart how it thrives on hate.
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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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Love, why have you sought the horde of spearsmen, why the tent Achilles pitched beside the river-ford?
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