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Ardent yet chill and formal, how I ache to tempt a chisel as a sculptor.

Hilda Doolittle

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Hilda Doolittle
Ache
Formal
Chisel
Artist
Chisels
Art
Tempt
Sculptor
Sculptors
Ardent
Chill

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I could not accept from wisdom what love taught, woman is perfect.
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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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We are voyagers, discoverers of the not-known, the unrecorded we have no map possibly we will reach haven, heaven.
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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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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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I testify to rainbow feathers, to the span of heaven and walls of colour, the colonnades of jasper.
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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 things I have are nameless, old and true they may not be named few may live and know.
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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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Dance until the earth dance.
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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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For this beauty, beauty without strength, chokes out life.
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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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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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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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Passionate grave thought, belief enhanced, ritual returned and magic.
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A slight wind shakes the seed-pods my thoughts are spent as the black seeds.
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