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

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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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I fear no man, no woman flower does not fear bird, insect nor adder.
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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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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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There must be real gods see, the painted gods how fair!
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When the shingles hissed in the rain incendiary, other values were revealed to us
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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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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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Dance until the earth dance.
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Passionate grave thought, belief enhanced, ritual returned and magic.
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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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War is a fevered god who takes alike maiden and king and clod.
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Until it seems the whole city will be covered with gold pollen shaken from the bell-towers, lilies plundered with the weight of massive bees . . .
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Luminous, unfearful high-priestesses, our fervour shall banish all evil.
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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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Ardent yet chill and formal, how I ache to tempt a chisel as a sculptor.
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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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My eye-balls are glass, my limbs marble, my face fixed in its marble mask.
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The whole white world is ours.
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