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Not God with wine, nor death, nor hate for a cry, but God with a song

Hilda Doolittle

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Hilda Doolittle
God
Cry
Wine
Hate
Song
Death

More quotes by Hilda Doolittle

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Sing and your hell is heaven, your heaven less hell.
Hilda Doolittle
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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.
Hilda Doolittle
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The race may or may not be to the swift, but tell me, is it likely that the fight will be entrusted to the dead?
Hilda Doolittle
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My eye-balls are glass, my limbs marble, my face fixed in its marble mask.
Hilda Doolittle
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In my garden the winds have beaten the ripe lilies in my garden, the salt has wilted the first flakes of young narcissus.
Hilda Doolittle
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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.
Hilda Doolittle
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When the shingles hissed in the rain incendiary, other values were revealed to us
Hilda Doolittle
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A slight wind shakes the seed-pods my thoughts are spent as the black seeds.
Hilda Doolittle
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Maid of the luminous grey-eyes, Mistress of honey and marble implacable white thighs and Goddess, chaste daughter of Zeus.
Hilda Doolittle
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(Those women whom the distaff no longer claims nor spun cloth) driven made, mad, mad by Bacchus.
Hilda Doolittle
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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.
Hilda Doolittle
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Light threatens, is active, is gone, so it is with a song.
Hilda Doolittle
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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!)
Hilda Doolittle
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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.
Hilda Doolittle
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Words were her plague and words were her redemption.
Hilda Doolittle
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Love, why have you sought the horde of spearsmen, why the tent Achilles pitched beside the river-ford?
Hilda Doolittle
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There's a black rose growing in your garden.
Hilda Doolittle
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Cheat me not with time, with the dull ache of flesh, for all flesh turns, even the loveliest ankle and frail thigh, to bitterest dust.
Hilda Doolittle
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There must be real gods see, the painted gods how fair!
Hilda Doolittle
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I could not accept from wisdom what love taught, woman is perfect.
Hilda Doolittle