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Luminous, unfearful high-priestesses, our fervour shall banish all evil.

Hilda Doolittle

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Hilda Doolittle
Shall
High
Religion
Evil
Fervour
Priestesses
Banish
Luminous

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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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The whole white world is ours.
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I myself have seen the floating ships And nothing will ever be the same The shouts, The harrowing voices within the house. I stand apart with an army: My mind is graven with ships.
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When the shingles hissed in the rain incendiary, other values were revealed to us
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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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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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For this beauty, beauty without strength, chokes out life.
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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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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 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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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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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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Ardent yet chill and formal, how I ache to tempt a chisel as a sculptor.
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Light threatens, is active, is gone, so it is with a song.
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Sing and your hell is heaven, your heaven less hell.
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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 testify to rainbow feathers, to the span of heaven and walls of colour, the colonnades of jasper.
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I spit honey out of my mouth: nothing is second-best after the sweet of Eros.
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The race may or may not be to the swift, but tell me, is it likely that the fight will be entrusted to the dead?
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I could not accept from wisdom what love taught, woman is perfect.
Hilda Doolittle