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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
Love
Parnassus
Riven
Garment
Garments
Rises
Showing
Night
Light

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Words were her plague and words were her redemption.
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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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It is no madness to say you will fall, you great cities.
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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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For this beauty, beauty without strength, chokes out life.
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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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Pompeii has nothing to teach us, we know crack of volcanic fissure, slow flow of terrible lava, pressure on heart, lungs, the brain about to burst its brittle case (what the skull can endure!)
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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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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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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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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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There's a black rose growing in your garden.
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Ardent yet chill and formal, how I ache to tempt a chisel as a sculptor.
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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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A slight wind shakes the seed-pods my thoughts are spent as the black seeds.
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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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Light threatens, is active, is gone, so it is with a song.
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Dance until the earth dance.
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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
Hilda Doolittle