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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.

Hilda Doolittle

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Hilda Doolittle
Take
Script
Spat
Broke
Spats
Scripts
Tomb
Poet
Tombs
Poetry
Bell
Church
Shattered
Upon
Bells
Found
Candle
Iconoclasm

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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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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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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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The heart the heart the heart how it thrives on hate.
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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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When the shingles hissed in the rain incendiary, other values were revealed to us
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It is no madness to say you will fall, you great cities.
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Love, why have you sought the horde of spearsmen, why the tent Achilles pitched beside the river-ford?
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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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Love is a garment riven in the light that rises from Parnassus, showing the night is over.
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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.
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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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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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The things I have are nameless, old and true they may not be named few may live and know.
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I spit honey out of my mouth: nothing is second-best after the sweet of Eros.
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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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Lift up our eyes to you? no, God, we stare and stare, upon a nearer thing that greets us here, Death, violent and near.
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There is no man can take, there is no pool can slake, ultimately I am alone ultimately I am done.
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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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