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

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Lovers may come and go, there was the memory of blood, the low call.
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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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Love has no charm when Love is swept to earth: you'd make a lop-winged god, frozen and contrite, of god up-darting, winged for passionate flight.
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Not God with wine, nor death, nor hate for a cry, but God with a song
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When the shingles hissed in the rain incendiary, other values were revealed to us
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There's a black rose growing in your garden.
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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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Maid of the luminous grey-eyes, Mistress of honey and marble implacable white thighs and Goddess, chaste daughter of Zeus.
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It is no madness to say you will fall, you great cities.
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Luminous, unfearful high-priestesses, our fervour shall banish all evil.
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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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There is no man can take, there is no pool can slake, ultimately I am alone ultimately I am done.
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There must be real gods see, the painted gods how fair!
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For you are abstract, making no mistake, slurring no word in the rhythm you make, the poem, writ in the air.
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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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Sing and your hell is heaven, your heaven less hell.
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Dance until the earth dance.
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The things I have are nameless, old and true they may not be named few may live and know.
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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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Lift up our eyes to you? no, God, we stare and stare, upon a nearer thing that greets us here, Death, violent and near.
Hilda Doolittle