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

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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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My eye-balls are glass, my limbs marble, my face fixed in its marble mask.
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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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(Those women whom the distaff no longer claims nor spun cloth) driven made, mad, mad by Bacchus.
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I could not accept from wisdom what love taught, woman is perfect.
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A slight wind shakes the seed-pods my thoughts are spent as the black seeds.
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You are wind in a stark tree, you are the stark tree unbent, you are a strung bow, you are an arrow.
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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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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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Passionate grave thought, belief enhanced, ritual returned and magic.
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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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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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Ardent yet chill and formal, how I ache to tempt a chisel as a sculptor.
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I fear no man, no woman flower does not fear bird, insect nor adder.
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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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The elixir of life, the philosopher's stone is yours if you surrender sterile logic, trivial reason.
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There's a black rose growing in your garden.
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There must be real gods see, the painted gods how fair!
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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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Love has no charm when Love is swept to earth: you'd make a lop-winged god, frozen and contrite, of god up-darting, winged for passionate flight.
Hilda Doolittle