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

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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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Words were her plague and words were her redemption.
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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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A slight wind shakes the seed-pods my thoughts are spent as the black seeds.
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Dance until the earth dance.
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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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Love is a garment riven in the light that rises from Parnassus, showing the night is over.
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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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Long hours trail in their purple and long years are lost in just this moment while our souls are near, our mouths separate.
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Lovers may come and go, there was the memory of blood, the low call.
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I spit honey out of my mouth: nothing is second-best after the sweet of Eros.
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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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But beauty is set apart, beauty is cast by the sea, a barren rock, beauty is set about with wrecks of ships.
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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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We are voyagers, discoverers of the not-known, the unrecorded we have no map possibly we will reach haven, heaven.
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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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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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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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Not God with wine, nor death, nor hate for a cry, but God with a song
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