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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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More quotes by Hilda Doolittle
(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.
Hilda Doolittle
For you are abstract, making no mistake, slurring no word in the rhythm you make, the poem, writ in the air.
Hilda Doolittle
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.
Hilda Doolittle
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.
Hilda Doolittle
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.
Hilda Doolittle
The things I have are nameless, old and true they may not be named few may live and know.
Hilda Doolittle
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.
Hilda Doolittle
I spit honey out of my mouth: nothing is second-best after the sweet of Eros.
Hilda Doolittle