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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

More quotes by 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.
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A slight wind shakes the seed-pods my thoughts are spent as the black seeds.
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I could not accept from wisdom what love taught, woman is perfect.
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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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For this beauty, beauty without strength, chokes out life.
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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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Cheat me not with time, with the dull ache of flesh, for all flesh turns, even the loveliest ankle and frail thigh, to bitterest dust.
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Light threatens, is active, is gone, so it is with a song.
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The whole white world is ours.
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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.
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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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Dance until the earth dance.
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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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Lovers may come and go, there was the memory of blood, the low call.
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Words were her plague and words were her redemption.
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The heart the heart the heart how it thrives on hate.
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Ardent yet chill and formal, how I ache to tempt a chisel as a sculptor.
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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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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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In my garden the winds have beaten the ripe lilies in my garden, the salt has wilted the first flakes of young narcissus.
Hilda Doolittle