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Lovers may come and go, there was the memory of blood, the low call.

Hilda Doolittle

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Hilda Doolittle
Memory
Memories
Blood
Call
May
Come
Lows
Lovers

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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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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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Light threatens, is active, is gone, so it is with a song.
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It is no madness to say you will fall, you great cities.
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There's a black rose growing in your garden.
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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.
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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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We are voyagers, discoverers of the not-known, the unrecorded we have no map possibly we will reach haven, heaven.
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Luminous, unfearful high-priestesses, our fervour shall banish all evil.
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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.
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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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Sing and your hell is heaven, your heaven less hell.
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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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When the shingles hissed in the rain incendiary, other values were revealed to us
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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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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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The things I have are nameless, old and true they may not be named few may live and know.
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Love is a garment riven in the light that rises from Parnassus, showing the night is over.
Hilda Doolittle