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

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Words were her plague and words were her redemption.
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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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There is no man can take, there is no pool can slake, ultimately I am alone ultimately I am done.
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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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When the shingles hissed in the rain incendiary, other values were revealed to us
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Light threatens, is active, is gone, so it is with a song.
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Could beauty be beaten out, O youth the cities have sent to strike at each other's strength, it is you who have kept her alight.
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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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Sing and your hell is heaven, your heaven less hell.
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A slight wind shakes the seed-pods my thoughts are spent as the black seeds.
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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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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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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 heart the heart the heart how it thrives on hate.
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I fear no man, no woman flower does not fear bird, insect nor adder.
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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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The whole white world is ours.
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For this beauty, beauty without strength, chokes out life.
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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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Lift up our eyes to you? no, God, we stare and stare, upon a nearer thing that greets us here, Death, violent and near.
Hilda Doolittle