Hilda Doolittle Quotes
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Alas, day, you brought light, You trailed splendour You showed us god: I salute you, most precious one, But I go to a new place, Another life.
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Every concrete object has abstract value, is timeless in the dream parallel.
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A slight wind shakes the seed-pods my thoughts are spent as the black seeds.
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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.
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Escape from the power of the hunting pack, and to know that wisdom is best and beauty sheer holiness.
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Dance until the earth dance.
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That way of inspiration is always open, and open to everyone; it acts as go-between, interpreter, it explains symbols of the past in to-day's imagery.
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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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Lovers may come and go, there was the memory of blood, the low call.
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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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I had drawn away into the salt, myself, a shell emptied of life.
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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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I testify to rainbow feathers, to the span of heaven and walls of colour, the colonnades of jasper.
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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 knew the poor, I knew the hideous death they die, when famine lays its bleak hand on the door; I knew the rich, sated with merriment, who yet are sad.
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We don't have to know,only to be:let go the jumble of worn words,reason and vanity.
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We are these people, wistful, ironical, wilful, who have no part in new-world reconstruction, in the confederacy of labour.
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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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(Those women whom the distaff no longer claims nor spun cloth) driven made, mad, mad by Bacchus.
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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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For you are abstract, making no mistake, slurring no word in the rhythm you make, the poem, writ in the air.
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War is a fevered god who takes alike maiden and king and clod.
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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 Christos-image is most difficult to disentangle from its art-craft junk-shop paint-and-plaster medieval jumble of pain-worship and death-symbol.
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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.
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My eye-balls are glass, my limbs marble, my face fixed in its marble mask.
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I smiled, I waited, I was circumspect; O never, never, never write that I missed life or loving.
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I could not accept from wisdom what love taught, woman is perfect.
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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.
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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?
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