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When the shingles hissed in the rain incendiary, other values were revealed to us

Hilda Doolittle

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Hilda Doolittle
Revealed
Perception
Rain
Understanding
Values
War
Incendiary
Shingles
Hissed

More quotes by Hilda Doolittle

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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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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's a black rose growing in your garden.
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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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Sing and your hell is heaven, your heaven less hell.
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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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Love is a garment riven in the light that rises from Parnassus, showing the night is over.
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Ardent yet chill and formal, how I ache to tempt a chisel as a sculptor.
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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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Passionate grave thought, belief enhanced, ritual returned and magic.
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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.
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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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Dance until the earth dance.
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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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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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My eye-balls are glass, my limbs marble, my face fixed in its marble mask.
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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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There must be real gods see, the painted gods how fair!
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Not God with wine, nor death, nor hate for a cry, but God with a song
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Lovers may come and go, there was the memory of blood, the low call.
Hilda Doolittle