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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.

Hilda Doolittle

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Hilda Doolittle
Freedom
Bind
Free
Lover
Earth
Bliss
Love
Actual
Kiss
Solitude
Kissing
Lovers
Counteract

More quotes by Hilda Doolittle

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I could not accept from wisdom what love taught, woman is perfect.
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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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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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I testify to rainbow feathers, to the span of heaven and walls of colour, the colonnades of jasper.
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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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I fear no man, no woman flower does not fear bird, insect nor adder.
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Until it seems the whole city will be covered with gold pollen shaken from the bell-towers, lilies plundered with the weight of massive bees . . .
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Words were her plague and words were her redemption.
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Sing and your hell is heaven, your heaven less hell.
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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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Love is a garment riven in the light that rises from Parnassus, showing the night is over.
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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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The things I have are nameless, old and true they may not be named few may live and know.
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There is no man can take, there is no pool can slake, ultimately I am alone ultimately I am done.
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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 heart the heart the heart how it thrives on hate.
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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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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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My eye-balls are glass, my limbs marble, my face fixed in its marble mask.
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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.
Hilda Doolittle