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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.

Hilda Doolittle

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Hilda Doolittle
Mistake
Word
Writ
Making
Dancer
Make
Poem
Abstract
Rhythm
Dancing
Air

More quotes by Hilda Doolittle

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It is no madness to say you will fall, you great cities.
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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.
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Words were her plague and words were her redemption.
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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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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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I could not accept from wisdom what love taught, woman is perfect.
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My eye-balls are glass, my limbs marble, my face fixed in its marble mask.
Hilda Doolittle
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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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(Those women whom the distaff no longer claims nor spun cloth) driven made, mad, mad by Bacchus.
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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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The things I have are nameless, old and true they may not be named few may live and know.
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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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Light threatens, is active, is gone, so it is with a song.
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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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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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For this beauty, beauty without strength, chokes out life.
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There must be real gods see, the painted gods how fair!
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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A slight wind shakes the seed-pods my thoughts are spent as the black seeds.
Hilda Doolittle