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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
Late
Purple
Pomegranates
Broken
Offering
Hazel
Already
Nuts
Figs
Bring
Fallen
Untouched
Red
Dripping
Thee
Berries
Wine
Stripped
Quince
Green
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Shrunken
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There must be real gods see, the painted gods how fair!
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War is a fevered god who takes alike maiden and king and clod.
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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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The heart the heart the heart how it thrives on hate.
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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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The whole white world is ours.
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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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A slight wind shakes the seed-pods my thoughts are spent as the black seeds.
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When the shingles hissed in the rain incendiary, other values were revealed to us
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(Those women whom the distaff no longer claims nor spun cloth) driven made, mad, mad by Bacchus.
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Ardent yet chill and formal, how I ache to tempt a chisel as a sculptor.
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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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I testify to rainbow feathers, to the span of heaven and walls of colour, the colonnades of jasper.
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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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Maid of the luminous grey-eyes, Mistress of honey and marble implacable white thighs and Goddess, chaste daughter of Zeus.
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