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

Hilda Doolittle

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Hilda Doolittle
Priestesses
Banish
Luminous
Shall
High
Religion
Evil
Fervour

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Words were her plague and words were her redemption.
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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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Passionate grave thought, belief enhanced, ritual returned and magic.
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Lovers may come and go, there was the memory of blood, the low call.
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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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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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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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Light threatens, is active, is gone, so it is with a song.
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For this beauty, beauty without strength, chokes out life.
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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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Love, why have you sought the horde of spearsmen, why the tent Achilles pitched beside the river-ford?
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The stallion and his mare, unbridled, with arrow-pattern, are worked on. the blue cloth before the door of religion and inspiration.
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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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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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My eye-balls are glass, my limbs marble, my face fixed in its marble mask.
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When the shingles hissed in the rain incendiary, other values were revealed to us
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A slight wind shakes the seed-pods my thoughts are spent as the black seeds.
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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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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