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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
Door
Mares
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Stallions
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Unbridled
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Inspiration
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More quotes by Hilda Doolittle

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Luminous, unfearful high-priestesses, our fervour shall banish all evil.
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The whole white world is ours.
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Ardent yet chill and formal, how I ache to tempt a chisel as a sculptor.
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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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Love, why have you sought the horde of spearsmen, why the tent Achilles pitched beside the river-ford?
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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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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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Light threatens, is active, is gone, so it is 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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We are voyagers, discoverers of the not-known, the unrecorded we have no map possibly we will reach haven, heaven.
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The heart the heart the heart how it thrives on hate.
Hilda Doolittle
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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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I could not accept from wisdom what love taught, woman is perfect.
Hilda Doolittle
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Love is a garment riven in the light that rises from Parnassus, showing the night is over.
Hilda Doolittle
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There's a black rose growing in your garden.
Hilda Doolittle
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War is a fevered god who takes alike maiden and king and clod.
Hilda Doolittle
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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.
Hilda Doolittle
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War wreaked on you his hideous ravishment We, we alone, Nereids inviolate, Remain to weep, with the sea-birds to chant: Corinth is lost, Corinth is desolate.
Hilda Doolittle
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It is no madness to say you will fall, you great cities.
Hilda Doolittle
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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.
Hilda Doolittle