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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

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Hilda Doolittle
Violent
Sky
Greets
Eyes
Nearer
Upon
Stare
Eye
Lift
War
Lifts
Death
Staring
Near
Thing

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Passionate grave thought, belief enhanced, ritual returned and magic.
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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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Words were her plague and words were her redemption.
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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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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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I could not accept from wisdom what love taught, woman is perfect.
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Not God with wine, nor death, nor hate for a cry, but God with a song
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When the shingles hissed in the rain incendiary, other values were revealed to us
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I spit honey out of my mouth: nothing is second-best after the sweet of Eros.
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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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Love is a garment riven in the light that rises from Parnassus, showing the night is over.
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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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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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I will be free, no lover's kiss to bind me to earth, no bliss of love to counteract actual bliss.
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Dance until the earth dance.
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Ardent yet chill and formal, how I ache to tempt a chisel as a sculptor.
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My eye-balls are glass, my limbs marble, my face fixed in its marble mask.
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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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The elixir of life, the philosopher's stone is yours if you surrender sterile logic, trivial reason.
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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