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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.

Hilda Doolittle

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Hilda Doolittle
Rock
Rocks
Wrecks
Beauty
Barren
Ships
Cast
Casts
Apart
Sea

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I fear no man, no woman flower does not fear bird, insect nor adder.
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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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(Those women whom the distaff no longer claims nor spun cloth) driven made, mad, mad by Bacchus.
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War is a fevered god who takes alike maiden and king and clod.
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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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A slight wind shakes the seed-pods my thoughts are spent as the black seeds.
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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 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 testify to rainbow feathers, to the span of heaven and walls of colour, the colonnades of jasper.
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The heart the heart the heart how it thrives on hate.
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Sing and your hell is heaven, your heaven less hell.
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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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I spit honey out of my mouth: nothing is second-best after the sweet of Eros.
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Passionate grave thought, belief enhanced, ritual returned and magic.
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Not God with wine, nor death, nor hate for a cry, but God with a song
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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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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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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.
Hilda Doolittle