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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
War
Fevered
Clod
Maiden
Maidens
Alike
King
Kings
Takes

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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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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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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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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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Maid of the luminous grey-eyes, Mistress of honey and marble implacable white thighs and Goddess, chaste daughter of Zeus.
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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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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 elixir of life, the philosopher's stone is yours if you surrender sterile logic, trivial reason.
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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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Sing and your hell is heaven, your heaven less hell.
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The whole white world is ours.
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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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I will be free, no lover's kiss to bind me to earth, no bliss of love to counteract actual bliss.
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Dance until the earth dance.
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When the shingles hissed in the rain incendiary, other values were revealed to us
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Not God with wine, nor death, nor hate for a cry, but God with a song
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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's a black rose growing in your garden.
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Lovers may come and go, there was the memory of blood, the low call.
Hilda Doolittle