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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.

Hilda Doolittle

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Hilda Doolittle
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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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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 heart the heart the heart how it thrives on hate.
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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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Ardent yet chill and formal, how I ache to tempt a chisel as a sculptor.
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There must be real gods see, the painted gods how fair!
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Luminous, unfearful high-priestesses, our fervour shall banish all evil.
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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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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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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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For this beauty, beauty without strength, chokes out life.
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Dance until the earth dance.
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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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Lift up our eyes to you? no, God, we stare and stare, upon a nearer thing that greets us here, Death, violent and near.
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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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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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Lovers may come and go, there was the memory of blood, the low call.
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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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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 spit honey out of my mouth: nothing is second-best after the sweet of Eros.
Hilda Doolittle