Hilda Doolittle Quotes - Page 3

remember the golden apple-trees; O, do not pity them, as you watch them drop one by one, for they fall exhausted, numb, blind but in certain ecstasy, for theirs is the hunger for Paradise.

Love that I bear within my breast how is my armour melted how my heart

When you would think, "what was the use of it," you'll remember something you can't grasp and you'll wonder what it was.

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

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.

Passionate grave thought, belief enhanced, ritual returned and magic.

Love is a garment riven in the light that rises from Parnassus, showing the night is over.

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.

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.

The Greeks have snatched up their spears. They have pointed the helms of their ships Toward the bulwarks of Troy.

Could beauty be beaten out, O youth the cities have sent to strike at each other's strength, it is you who have kept her alight.

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!)

I had drawn away into the salt, myself, a shell emptied of life.

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?

A slight wind shakes the seed-pods my thoughts are spent as the black seeds.

We are these people, wistful, ironical, wilful, who have no part in new-world reconstruction, in the confederacy of labour.

When the shingles hissed in the rain incendiary, other values were revealed to us

Lift up our eyes to you? no, God, we stare and stare, upon a nearer thing that greets us here, Death, violent and near.

Long hours trail in their purple and long years are lost in just this moment while our souls are near, our mouths separate.

No man will be present in those mysteries, yet all men will kneel, no man will be potent, important, yet all men will feel what it is to be a woman.

O happy, happy each man whom predestined fate leads to the holy rite of hill and mountain worship.

Light threatens, is active, is gone, so it is with a song.

The laying of fish on the embers, the taste of the fish, the feel of the texture of bread, the round and the half-loaf, the grain of a petal, the rain-bow and the rain.

I testify to rainbow feathers, to the span of heaven and walls of colour, the colonnades of jasper.

Ardent yet chill and formal, how I ache to tempt a chisel as a sculptor.