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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
Beauty
Barren
Ships
Cast
Casts
Apart
Sea
Rock
Rocks
Wrecks

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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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Dance until the earth dance.
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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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War is a fevered god who takes alike maiden and king and clod.
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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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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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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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Not God with wine, nor death, nor hate for a cry, but God with a song
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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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Maid of the luminous grey-eyes, Mistress of honey and marble implacable white thighs and Goddess, chaste daughter of Zeus.
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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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A slight wind shakes the seed-pods my thoughts are spent as the black seeds.
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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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My eye-balls are glass, my limbs marble, my face fixed in its marble mask.
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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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Words were her plague and words were her redemption.
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The heart the heart the heart how it thrives on hate.
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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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Luminous, unfearful high-priestesses, our fervour shall banish all evil.
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Lovers may come and go, there was the memory of blood, the low call.
Hilda Doolittle