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

More quotes by Hilda Doolittle

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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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Words were her plague and words were her redemption.
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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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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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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 whole white world is ours.
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There must be real gods see, the painted gods how fair!
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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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A slight wind shakes the seed-pods my thoughts are spent as the black seeds.
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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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Love is a garment riven in the light that rises from Parnassus, showing the night is over.
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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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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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Luminous, unfearful high-priestesses, our fervour shall banish all evil.
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When the shingles hissed in the rain incendiary, other values were revealed to us
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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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I spit honey out of my mouth: nothing is second-best after the sweet of Eros.
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War is a fevered god who takes alike maiden and king and clod.
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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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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