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

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Ardent yet chill and formal, how I ache to tempt a chisel as a sculptor.
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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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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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Maid of the luminous grey-eyes, Mistress of honey and marble implacable white thighs and Goddess, chaste daughter of Zeus.
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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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War is a fevered god who takes alike maiden and king and clod.
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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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Take what the old-church found in Mithra's tomb, candle and script and bell, take what the new-church spat upon and broke and shattered.
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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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I fear no man, no woman flower does not fear bird, insect nor adder.
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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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Lift up our eyes to you? no, God, we stare and stare, upon a nearer thing that greets us here, Death, violent and near.
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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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There must be real gods see, the painted gods how fair!
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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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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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Love is a garment riven in the light that rises from Parnassus, showing the night is over.
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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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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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Love, why have you sought the horde of spearsmen, why the tent Achilles pitched beside the river-ford?
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