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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.

Hilda Doolittle

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Hilda Doolittle
Open
Garment
Spirit
Rebirth
Hands
Garments
Body
Crown
Soul
Crowns
Retrieve
Whole
Perseverance
Thorny
Love
Step
Clasped
Steps
Forfeit

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I spit honey out of my mouth: nothing is second-best after the sweet of Eros.
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Dance until the earth dance.
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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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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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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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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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Love is a garment riven in the light that rises from Parnassus, showing the night is over.
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The heart the heart the heart how it thrives on hate.
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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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Take what the old-church found in Mithra's tomb, candle and script and bell, take what the new-church spat upon and broke and shattered.
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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.
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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 could not accept from wisdom what love taught, woman is perfect.
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Ardent yet chill and formal, how I ache to tempt a chisel as a sculptor.
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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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Love, why have you sought the horde of spearsmen, why the tent Achilles pitched beside the river-ford?
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Sing and your hell is heaven, your heaven less hell.
Hilda Doolittle
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Lovers may come and go, there was the memory of blood, the low call.
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Light threatens, is active, is gone, so it is with a song.
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Luminous, unfearful high-priestesses, our fervour shall banish all evil.
Hilda Doolittle