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

More quotes by Hilda Doolittle

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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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Passionate grave thought, belief enhanced, ritual returned and magic.
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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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Ardent yet chill and formal, how I ache to tempt a chisel as a sculptor.
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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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Sing and your hell is heaven, your heaven less hell.
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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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There is no man can take, there is no pool can slake, ultimately I am alone ultimately I am done.
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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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There must be real gods see, the painted gods how fair!
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Words were her plague and words were her redemption.
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I fear no man, no woman flower does not fear bird, insect nor adder.
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Dance until the earth dance.
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The whole white world is ours.
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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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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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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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Light threatens, is active, is gone, so it is with a song.
Hilda Doolittle
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There's a black rose growing in your garden.
Hilda Doolittle