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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
Dancing
Wind
Strung
Tree
Starks
Stark
Arrow
Arrows
Bows
Dancer

More quotes by 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.
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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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Let Love step down, open the clasped hands, forfeit the thorny crown, retrieve the garment that was whole, body and spirit one, spirit and soul.
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There's a black rose growing in your garden.
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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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Not God with wine, nor death, nor hate for a cry, but God with a song
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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.
Hilda Doolittle
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Luminous, unfearful high-priestesses, our fervour shall banish all evil.
Hilda Doolittle
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I spit honey out of my mouth: nothing is second-best after the sweet of Eros.
Hilda Doolittle
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There must be real gods see, the painted gods how fair!
Hilda Doolittle
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The heart the heart the heart how it thrives on hate.
Hilda Doolittle
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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 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
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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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(Those women whom the distaff no longer claims nor spun cloth) driven made, mad, mad by Bacchus.
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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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Love, why have you sought the horde of spearsmen, why the tent Achilles pitched beside the river-ford?
Hilda Doolittle
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Words were her plague and words were her redemption.
Hilda Doolittle
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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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Maid of the luminous grey-eyes, Mistress of honey and marble implacable white thighs and Goddess, chaste daughter of Zeus.
Hilda Doolittle