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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.

Hilda Doolittle

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Hilda Doolittle
Mortality
Transience
Cheat
Thigh
Dull
Loveliest
Dust
Ankle
Flesh
Ankles
Turns
Thighs
Even
Frail
Time
Ache
Bitterest

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Maid of the luminous grey-eyes, Mistress of honey and marble implacable white thighs and Goddess, chaste daughter of Zeus.
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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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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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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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Passionate grave thought, belief enhanced, ritual returned and magic.
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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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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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My eye-balls are glass, my limbs marble, my face fixed in its marble mask.
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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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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 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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The things I have are nameless, old and true they may not be named few may live and know.
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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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There is no man can take, there is no pool can slake, ultimately I am alone ultimately I am done.
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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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The elixir of life, the philosopher's stone is yours if you surrender sterile logic, trivial reason.
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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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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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