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

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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.
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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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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.
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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 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.
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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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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
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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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Lovers may come and go, there was the memory of blood, the low call.
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There must be real gods see, the painted gods how fair!
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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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