Explore popular quotes and sayings by a novelist Hilda Doolittle.
Last updated on December 22, 2024.
Hilda Doolittle was an early modernist poet and novelist, essayist, and memoirist who, over a long career, published under the pseudonym H.D.. She became known for her sparse, minimalist, free verse works and association with the 1910s avant-garde Imagist group of poets she co-founded with the American expatriate poet and critic Ezra Pound and the writer and poet Richard Aldington, whom she married in 1913.
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.
The heart
the heart
the heart
how it thrives on hate.
You are wind in a stark tree,
you are the stark tree unbent,
you are a strung bow,
you are an arrow.
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.
No one knows,
the heart of a child,
how it grows
until it is too late.
One flower may slay the winter
and meet death.
Think of the moment you count
most foul in your life;
conjure it,
supplicate,
pray to it;
your face is bleak, you retract,
you dare not remember it.
Dance until the earth dance.
The whole white world is ours.
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.
She did not look at the daffodils. They didn't mean anything. She looked at the daffodils. She said, 'Thank you for the daffodils.
The elixir of life, the philosopher's stone
is yours if you surrender
sterile logic, trivial reason.
Escape
from the power of the hunting pack,
and to know that wisdom is best
and beauty
sheer holiness.
Thoth, Hermes, the stylus,
the palette, the pen, the quill endure,
though our books are a floor
of smouldering ash under our feet.
Passionate grave thought,
belief enhanced,
ritual returned and magic.
Every concrete object
has abstract value, is timeless
in the dream parallel.
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.
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.
Not God
with wine,
nor death,
nor hate for a cry,
but God with a song
O beautiful white land,
olives and wild anemone and violet
mingled among the shale,
and purple wings
of little winter-butterflies
say, here Psyche, the soul, lies.
For this beauty,
beauty without strength,
chokes out life.
We are these people,
wistful, ironical, wilful,
who have no part in
new-world reconstruction,
in the confederacy of labour.
No one knows the colour of a flower
till it is broken.
Our minds can go no further. The human imagination is capable of no further expression of beauty than the carved owl of Athene, the archaic, marble serpent, the arrogant selfish head of the Acropolis Apollo.
Ah love is bitter and sweet,
but which is more sweet
the bitterness or the sweetness,
none has spoken it.
We are voyagers, discoverers
of the not-known,
the unrecorded;
we have no map;
possibly we will reach haven,
heaven.
There's a black rose growing in your garden.
I could not accept from wisdom
what love taught,
woman is perfect.
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.
O do not weep, she says, for ages past I was and I endure
I smiled,
I waited,
I was circumspect;
O never, never, never write that I
missed life or loving.
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.
Dead men would start and move
toward me to learn of love.
But beauty is set apart,
beauty is cast by the sea,
a barren rock,
beauty is set about
with wrecks of ships.
Sing
and your hell is heaven,
your heaven less hell.
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?
Luminous,
unfearful;
high-priestesses,
our fervour
shall banish
all evil.
Music sets up ladders,
it makes us invisible,
it sets us apart,
it lets us escape;
but from the visible
there is no escape.
Why wait for Death to mow?
why wait for Death to sow
us in the ground?
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.
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!)
Lift up our eyes to you?
no, God, we stare and stare,
upon a nearer thing
that greets us here,
Death, violent and near.
I had drawn away into the salt,
myself, a shell
emptied of life.
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.
I will be free,
no lover's kiss
to bind me to earth,
no bliss of love
to counteract
actual bliss.
Words were her plague and words were her redemption.
I fear no man, no woman;
flower does not fear
bird, insect nor adder.
I spit
honey out of my mouth:
nothing is second-best
after the sweet of Eros.
Love is a garment
riven in the light
that rises from Parnassus,
showing
the night is over.
Writing. Love is writing.
There is no man can take,
there is no pool can slake,
ultimately I am alone;
ultimately I am done.
O ruthless, perilous, imperious hate,
you can not thwart
the promptings of my soul.
For you are abstract,
making no mistake,
slurring no word
in the rhythm you make,
the poem,
writ in the air.
You will not see
that desire begets
love,
until it all flames
into one concise
and metallic blaze.
War is a fevered god who takes alike maiden and king and clod.
...if you do not even understand what words say, how can you expect to pass judgement on what words conceal?
It is no madness to say
you will fall, you great cities.
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.
The things I have
are nameless,
old and true;
they may not be named;
few may live and know.
We don't have to know,only to be:let go the jumble of worn words,reason and vanity.