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Love, why have you sought the horde of spearsmen, why the tent Achilles pitched beside the river-ford?

Hilda Doolittle

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Hilda Doolittle
Love
Tent
Tents
Ford
Beside
Sought
River
Horde
Rivers
Pitched
War
Achilles

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It is no madness to say you will fall, you great cities.
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There's a black rose growing in your garden.
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Words were her plague and words were her redemption.
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I testify to rainbow feathers, to the span of heaven and walls of colour, the colonnades of jasper.
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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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I fear no man, no woman flower does not fear bird, insect nor adder.
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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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Not God with wine, nor death, nor hate for a cry, but God with a song
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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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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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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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The heart the heart the heart how it thrives on hate.
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