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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
Love
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More quotes by Hilda Doolittle
There's a black rose growing in your garden.
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When the shingles hissed in the rain incendiary, other values were revealed to us
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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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A slight wind shakes the seed-pods my thoughts are spent as the black seeds.
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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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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
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.
Hilda Doolittle
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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There is no man can take, there is no pool can slake, ultimately I am alone ultimately I am done.
Hilda Doolittle
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 testify to rainbow feathers, to the span of heaven and walls of colour, the colonnades of jasper.
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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.
Hilda Doolittle
For you are abstract, making no mistake, slurring no word in the rhythm you make, the poem, writ in the air.
Hilda Doolittle
Love is a garment riven in the light that rises from Parnassus, showing the night is over.
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Not God with wine, nor death, nor hate for a cry, but God with a song
Hilda Doolittle
The elixir of life, the philosopher's stone is yours if you surrender sterile logic, trivial reason.
Hilda Doolittle
Lovers may come and go, there was the memory of blood, the low call.
Hilda Doolittle
There must be real gods see, the painted gods how fair!
Hilda Doolittle
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 . . .
Hilda Doolittle