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Maid of the luminous grey-eyes, Mistress of honey and marble implacable white thighs and Goddess, chaste daughter of Zeus.

Hilda Doolittle

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Hilda Doolittle
Goddess
Zeus
Grey
Maid
Honey
Chaste
Daughter
Thighs
Beauty
Maids
Eyes
Luminous
Eye
Marble
White
Mistress
Implacable

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Dance until the earth dance.
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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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I could not accept from wisdom what love taught, woman is perfect.
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Luminous, unfearful high-priestesses, our fervour shall banish all evil.
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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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There must be real gods see, the painted gods how fair!
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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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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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There's a black rose growing in your garden.
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The whole white world is ours.
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When the shingles hissed in the rain incendiary, other values were revealed to us
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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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I spit honey out of my mouth: nothing is second-best after the sweet of Eros.
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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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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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We are voyagers, discoverers of the not-known, the unrecorded we have no map possibly we will reach haven, heaven.
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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.
Hilda Doolittle