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

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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 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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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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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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We are voyagers, discoverers of the not-known, the unrecorded we have no map possibly we will reach haven, heaven.
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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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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 heart the heart the heart how it thrives on hate.
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There must be real gods see, the painted gods how fair!
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The whole white world is ours.
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Passionate grave thought, belief enhanced, ritual returned and magic.
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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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For this beauty, beauty without strength, chokes out life.
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Luminous, unfearful high-priestesses, our fervour shall banish all evil.
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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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Love, why have you sought the horde of spearsmen, why the tent Achilles pitched beside the river-ford?
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Ardent yet chill and formal, how I ache to tempt a chisel as a sculptor.
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Not God with wine, nor death, nor hate for a cry, but God with a song
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Light threatens, is active, is gone, so it is with a song.
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