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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
Soul
Separate
Long
Near
Years
Souls
Time
Mouths
Trail
Hours
Trails
Moment
Purple
Lost
Separation
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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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A slight wind shakes the seed-pods my thoughts are spent as the black seeds.
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There's a black rose growing in your garden.
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When the shingles hissed in the rain incendiary, other values were revealed to us
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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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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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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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Passionate grave thought, belief enhanced, ritual returned and magic.
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War is a fevered god who takes alike maiden and king and clod.
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I could not accept from wisdom what love taught, woman is perfect.
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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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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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We are voyagers, discoverers of the not-known, the unrecorded we have no map possibly we will reach haven, heaven.
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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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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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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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Ardent yet chill and formal, how I ache to tempt a chisel as a sculptor.
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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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There must be real gods see, the painted gods how fair!
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Lovers may come and go, there was the memory of blood, the low call.
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