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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 . . .

Hilda Doolittle

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Hilda Doolittle
Seems
Bees
Whole
Bells
Plundered
Covered
Pollen
Massive
Shaken
Weight
Lilies
Gold
Venice
City
Bell
Cities
Towers

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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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Sing and your hell is heaven, your heaven less hell.
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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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Ardent yet chill and formal, how I ache to tempt a chisel as a sculptor.
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I testify to rainbow feathers, to the span of heaven and walls of colour, the colonnades of jasper.
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It is no madness to say you will fall, you great cities.
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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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The whole white world is ours.
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Not God with wine, nor death, nor hate for a cry, but God with a song
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I spit honey out of my mouth: nothing is second-best after the sweet of Eros.
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When the shingles hissed in the rain incendiary, other values were revealed to us
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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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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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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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