Quote

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!)

Hilda Doolittle

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Hilda Doolittle
Case
Crack
Fissure
Terrible
Lungs
Pompeii
Cases
Cracks
Volcanic
Teach
Slow
Brittle
Brain
Endure
Lava
Nothing
Destruction
Skull
Heart
Flow
Skulls
Pressure
Burst

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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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For this beauty, beauty without strength, chokes out life.
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My eye-balls are glass, my limbs marble, my face fixed in its marble mask.
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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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War is a fevered god who takes alike maiden and king and clod.
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There must be real gods see, the painted gods how fair!
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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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The elixir of life, the philosopher's stone is yours if you surrender sterile logic, trivial reason.
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Sing and your hell is heaven, your heaven less hell.
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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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When the shingles hissed in the rain incendiary, other values were revealed to us
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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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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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We are voyagers, discoverers of the not-known, the unrecorded we have no map possibly we will reach haven, heaven.
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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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Love is a garment riven in the light that rises from Parnassus, showing the night is over.
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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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