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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
Garment
Garments
Rises
Showing
Night
Light
Love
Parnassus
Riven

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Luminous, unfearful high-priestesses, our fervour shall banish all evil.
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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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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.
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I spit honey out of my mouth: nothing is second-best after the sweet of Eros.
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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 could not accept from wisdom what love taught, woman is perfect.
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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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Dance until the earth dance.
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There's a black rose growing in your garden.
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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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For this beauty, beauty without strength, chokes out life.
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We are voyagers, discoverers of the not-known, the unrecorded we have no map possibly we will reach haven, heaven.
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Light threatens, is active, is gone, so it is with a song.
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Words were her plague and words were her redemption.
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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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Lovers may come and go, there was the memory of blood, the low call.
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Love has no charm when Love is swept to earth: you'd make a lop-winged god, frozen and contrite, of god up-darting, winged for passionate flight.
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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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Sing and your hell is heaven, your heaven less hell.
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War is a fevered god who takes alike maiden and king and clod.
Hilda Doolittle