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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.
Hilda Doolittle
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Hilda Doolittle
Red
Dripping
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Stripped
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Broken
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More quotes by Hilda Doolittle
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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The heart the heart the heart how it thrives on hate.
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Ardent yet chill and formal, how I ache to tempt a chisel as a sculptor.
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The stallion and his mare, unbridled, with arrow-pattern, are worked on. the blue cloth before the door of religion and inspiration.
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For this beauty, beauty without strength, chokes out life.
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Luminous, unfearful high-priestesses, our fervour shall banish all evil.
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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.
Hilda Doolittle
My eye-balls are glass, my limbs marble, my face fixed in its marble mask.
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Dance until the earth dance.
Hilda Doolittle
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.
Hilda Doolittle
Not God with wine, nor death, nor hate for a cry, but God with a song
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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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A slight wind shakes the seed-pods my thoughts are spent as the black seeds.
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The whole white world is ours.
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In my garden the winds have beaten the ripe lilies in my garden, the salt has wilted the first flakes of young narcissus.
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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 . . .
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Cheat me not with time, with the dull ache of flesh, for all flesh turns, even the loveliest ankle and frail thigh, to bitterest dust.
Hilda Doolittle
Love is a garment riven in the light that rises from Parnassus, showing the night is over.
Hilda Doolittle
Lovers may come and go, there was the memory of blood, the low call.
Hilda Doolittle
I spit honey out of my mouth: nothing is second-best after the sweet of Eros.
Hilda Doolittle