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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.

Hilda Doolittle

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Hilda Doolittle
Doors
Cloth
Inspiration
Arrow
Religion
Arrows
Artist
Pattern
Mare
Art
Patterns
Stallion
Door
Mares
Worked
Stallions
Blue
Unbridled

More quotes by Hilda Doolittle

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Words were her plague and words were her redemption.
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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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My eye-balls are glass, my limbs marble, my face fixed in its marble mask.
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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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When the shingles hissed in the rain incendiary, other values were revealed to us
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Not God with wine, nor death, nor hate for a cry, but God with a song
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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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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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A slight wind shakes the seed-pods my thoughts are spent as the black seeds.
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It is no madness to say you will fall, you great cities.
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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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Passionate grave thought, belief enhanced, ritual returned and magic.
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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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In my garden the winds have beaten the ripe lilies in my garden, the salt has wilted the first flakes of young narcissus.
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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 must be real gods see, the painted gods how fair!
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Ardent yet chill and formal, how I ache to tempt a chisel as a sculptor.
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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.
Hilda Doolittle
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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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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!)
Hilda Doolittle