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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.

Hilda Doolittle

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Hilda Doolittle
Bows
Dancer
Dancing
Wind
Strung
Tree
Starks
Stark
Arrow
Arrows

More quotes by Hilda Doolittle

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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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My eye-balls are glass, my limbs marble, my face fixed in its marble mask.
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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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Ardent yet chill and formal, how I ache to tempt a chisel as a sculptor.
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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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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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War is a fevered god who takes alike maiden and king and clod.
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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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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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Luminous, unfearful high-priestesses, our fervour shall banish all evil.
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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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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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Love is a garment riven in the light that rises from Parnassus, showing the night is over.
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The heart the heart the heart how it thrives on hate.
Hilda Doolittle
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I could not accept from wisdom what love taught, woman is perfect.
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There must be real gods see, the painted gods how fair!
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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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I testify to rainbow feathers, to the span of heaven and walls of colour, the colonnades of jasper.
Hilda Doolittle
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Sing and your hell is heaven, your heaven less hell.
Hilda Doolittle
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Not God with wine, nor death, nor hate for a cry, but God with a song
Hilda Doolittle