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Love is a garment riven in the light that rises from Parnassus, showing the night is over.

Hilda Doolittle

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Hilda Doolittle
Light
Love
Parnassus
Riven
Garment
Garments
Rises
Showing
Night

More quotes by Hilda Doolittle

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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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War is a fevered god who takes alike maiden and king and clod.
Hilda Doolittle
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I could not accept from wisdom what love taught, woman is perfect.
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Not God with wine, nor death, nor hate for a cry, but God with a song
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Passionate grave thought, belief enhanced, ritual returned and magic.
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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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The whole white world is ours.
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.
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(Those women whom the distaff no longer claims nor spun cloth) driven made, mad, mad by Bacchus.
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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Lovers may come and go, there was the memory of blood, the low call.
Hilda Doolittle
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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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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.
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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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.
Hilda Doolittle
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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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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
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There must be real gods see, the painted gods how fair!
Hilda Doolittle
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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.
Hilda Doolittle
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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?
Hilda Doolittle