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

More quotes by Hilda Doolittle

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Love has no charm when Love is swept to earth: you'd make a lop-winged god, frozen and contrite, of god up-darting, winged for passionate flight.
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There must be real gods see, the painted gods how fair!
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(Those women whom the distaff no longer claims nor spun cloth) driven made, mad, mad by Bacchus.
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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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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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Ardent yet chill and formal, how I ache to tempt a chisel as a sculptor.
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Words were her plague and words were her redemption.
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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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Luminous, unfearful high-priestesses, our fervour shall banish all evil.
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The race may or may not be to the swift, but tell me, is it likely that the fight will be entrusted to the dead?
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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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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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But beauty is set apart, beauty is cast by the sea, a barren rock, beauty is set about with wrecks of ships.
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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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I spit honey out of my mouth: nothing is second-best after the sweet of Eros.
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For this beauty, beauty without strength, chokes out life.
Hilda Doolittle
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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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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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We are voyagers, discoverers of the not-known, the unrecorded we have no map possibly we will reach haven, heaven.
Hilda Doolittle
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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.
Hilda Doolittle