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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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Words were her plague and words were her redemption.
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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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Maid of the luminous grey-eyes, Mistress of honey and marble implacable white thighs and Goddess, chaste daughter of Zeus.
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A slight wind shakes the seed-pods my thoughts are spent as the black seeds.
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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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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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For this beauty, beauty without strength, chokes out life.
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Not God with wine, nor death, nor hate for a cry, but God with a song
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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 spit honey out of my mouth: nothing is second-best after the sweet of Eros.
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Lovers may come and go, there was the memory of blood, the low call.
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Sing and your hell is heaven, your heaven less hell.
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My eye-balls are glass, my limbs marble, my face fixed in its marble mask.
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War is a fevered god who takes alike maiden and king and clod.
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Luminous, unfearful high-priestesses, our fervour shall banish all evil.
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Light threatens, is active, is gone, so it is with a song.
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