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

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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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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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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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Ardent yet chill and formal, how I ache to tempt a chisel as a sculptor.
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I spit honey out of my mouth: nothing is second-best after the sweet of Eros.
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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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It is no madness to say you will fall, you great cities.
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There must be real gods see, the painted gods how fair!
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