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

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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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Take what the old-church found in Mithra's tomb, candle and script and bell, take what the new-church spat upon and broke and shattered.
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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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Not God with wine, nor death, nor hate for a cry, but God with a song
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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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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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Maid of the luminous grey-eyes, Mistress of honey and marble implacable white thighs and Goddess, chaste daughter of Zeus.
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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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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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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.
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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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You are wind in a stark tree, you are the stark tree unbent, you are a strung bow, you are an arrow.
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My eye-balls are glass, my limbs marble, my face fixed in its marble mask.
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We are voyagers, discoverers of the not-known, the unrecorded we have no map possibly we will reach haven, heaven.
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The heart the heart the heart how it thrives on hate.
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There must be real gods see, the painted gods how fair!
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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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Dance until the earth dance.
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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 you are abstract, making no mistake, slurring no word in the rhythm you make, the poem, writ in the air.
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