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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.

Hilda Doolittle

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Hilda Doolittle
Sea
Chant
Loss
Desolate
Alone
Hideous
War
Weep
Lost
Birds
Remain
Destruction
Wreaked
Bird
Inviolate

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Ardent yet chill and formal, how I ache to tempt a chisel as a sculptor.
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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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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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(Those women whom the distaff no longer claims nor spun cloth) driven made, mad, mad by Bacchus.
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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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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.
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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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For this beauty, beauty without strength, chokes out life.
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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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Maid of the luminous grey-eyes, Mistress of honey and marble implacable white thighs and Goddess, chaste daughter of Zeus.
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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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I fear no man, no woman flower does not fear bird, insect nor adder.
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A slight wind shakes the seed-pods my thoughts are spent as the black seeds.
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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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There is no man can take, there is no pool can slake, ultimately I am alone ultimately I am done.
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My eye-balls are glass, my limbs marble, my face fixed in its marble mask.
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Sing and your hell is heaven, your heaven less hell.
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There's a black rose growing in your garden.
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Dance until the earth dance.
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It is no madness to say you will fall, you great cities.
Hilda Doolittle