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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
Green
Grapes
Shrunken
Late
Purple
Pomegranates
Offering
Hazel
Broken
Nuts
Figs
Already
Fallen
Untouched
Bring
Red
Dripping
Thee
Berries
Wine
Stripped
Quince
More quotes by Hilda Doolittle
Sing and your hell is heaven, your heaven less hell.
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My eye-balls are glass, my limbs marble, my face fixed in its marble mask.
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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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When the shingles hissed in the rain incendiary, other values were revealed to us
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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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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.
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I spit honey out of my mouth: nothing is second-best after the sweet of Eros.
Hilda Doolittle
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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War is a fevered god who takes alike maiden and king and clod.
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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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Light threatens, is active, is gone, so it is with a song.
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She did not look at the daffodils. They didn't mean anything. She looked at the daffodils. She said, 'Thank you for the daffodils.
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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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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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The heart the heart the heart how it thrives on hate.
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Lovers may come and go, there was the memory of blood, the low call.
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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 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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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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There must be real gods see, the painted gods how fair!
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