Quote

In my garden the winds have beaten the ripe lilies in my garden, the salt has wilted the first flakes of young narcissus.

Hilda Doolittle

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Hilda Doolittle
Loss
Narcissus
Wind
Flakes
Young
Lilies
Firsts
Ripe
First
Winds
Beaten
Salt
Garden
Wilted

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Lovers may come and go, there was the memory of blood, the low call.
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I spit honey out of my mouth: nothing is second-best after the sweet of Eros.
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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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A slight wind shakes the seed-pods my thoughts are spent as the black seeds.
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Ardent yet chill and formal, how I ache to tempt a chisel as a sculptor.
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My eye-balls are glass, my limbs marble, my face fixed in its marble mask.
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There's a black rose growing in your garden.
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War is a fevered god who takes alike maiden and king and clod.
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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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Words were her plague and words were her redemption.
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The elixir of life, the philosopher's stone is yours if you surrender sterile logic, trivial reason.
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Not God with wine, nor death, nor hate for a cry, but God with a song
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I fear no man, no woman flower does not fear bird, insect nor adder.
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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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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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The whole white world is ours.
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