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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
Maidens
Alike
King
Kings
Takes
Fevered
War
Clod
Maiden

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Ardent yet chill and formal, how I ache to tempt a chisel as a sculptor.
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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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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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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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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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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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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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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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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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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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Love is a garment riven in the light that rises from Parnassus, showing the night is over.
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For this beauty, beauty without strength, chokes out life.
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There's a black rose growing in your garden.
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I spit honey out of my mouth: nothing is second-best after the sweet of Eros.
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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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Passionate grave thought, belief enhanced, ritual returned and magic.
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It is no madness to say you will fall, you great cities.
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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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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.
Hilda Doolittle