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

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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 is a garment riven in the light that rises from Parnassus, showing the night is over.
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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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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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The whole white world is ours.
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I could not accept from wisdom what love taught, woman is perfect.
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A slight wind shakes the seed-pods my thoughts are spent as the black seeds.
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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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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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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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The things I have are nameless, old and true they may not be named few may live and know.
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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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When the shingles hissed in the rain incendiary, other values were revealed to us
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For this beauty, beauty without strength, chokes out life.
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