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

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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I spit honey out of my mouth: nothing is second-best after the sweet of Eros.
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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 elixir of life, the philosopher's stone is yours if you surrender sterile logic, trivial reason.
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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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Long hours trail in their purple and long years are lost in just this moment while our souls are near, our mouths separate.
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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.
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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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It is no madness to say you will fall, you great cities.
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Words were her plague and words were her redemption.
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No poetic phantasy but a biological reality, a fact: I am an entity like bird, insect, plant or sea-plant cell I live I am alive.
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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.
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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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Sing and your hell is heaven, your heaven less hell.
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The heart the heart the heart how it thrives on hate.
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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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A slight wind shakes the seed-pods my thoughts are spent as the black seeds.
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Ardent yet chill and formal, how I ache to tempt a chisel as a sculptor.
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We are voyagers, discoverers of the not-known, the unrecorded we have no map possibly we will reach haven, heaven.
Hilda Doolittle