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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
Casts
Apart
Sea
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Beauty
Barren
Ships
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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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Long hours trail in their purple and long years are lost in just this moment while our souls are near, our mouths separate.
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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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We are voyagers, discoverers of the not-known, the unrecorded we have no map possibly we will reach haven, heaven.
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Lift up our eyes to you? no, God, we stare and stare, upon a nearer thing that greets us here, Death, violent and near.
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It is no madness to say you will fall, you great cities.
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Maid of the luminous grey-eyes, Mistress of honey and marble implacable white thighs and Goddess, chaste daughter of Zeus.
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Pompeii has nothing to teach us, we know crack of volcanic fissure, slow flow of terrible lava, pressure on heart, lungs, the brain about to burst its brittle case (what the skull can endure!)
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Dance until the earth dance.
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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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I could not accept from wisdom what love taught, woman is perfect.
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War is a fevered god who takes alike maiden and king and clod.
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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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There must be real gods see, the painted gods how fair!
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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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There's a black rose growing in your garden.
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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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(Those women whom the distaff no longer claims nor spun cloth) driven made, mad, mad by Bacchus.
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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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Words were her plague and words were her redemption.
Hilda Doolittle