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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
Clod
Maiden
Maidens
Alike
King
Kings
Takes
War
Fevered

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The whole white world is ours.
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My eye-balls are glass, my limbs marble, my face fixed in its marble mask.
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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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There is no man can take, there is no pool can slake, ultimately I am alone ultimately I am done.
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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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Luminous, unfearful high-priestesses, our fervour shall banish all evil.
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There must be real gods see, the painted gods how fair!
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Lovers may come and go, there was the memory of blood, the low call.
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Light threatens, is active, is gone, so it is with a song.
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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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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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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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Maid of the luminous grey-eyes, Mistress of honey and marble implacable white thighs and Goddess, chaste daughter of Zeus.
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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 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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Ardent yet chill and formal, how I ache to tempt a chisel as a sculptor.
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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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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 things I have are nameless, old and true they may not be named few may live and know.
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Not God with wine, nor death, nor hate for a cry, but God with a song
Hilda Doolittle