(Those women whom the distaff no longer claims nor spun cloth) driven made, mad, mad by Bacchus. — Hilda Doolittle Copy Share Image
“Sheltered Garden" I have had enough. I gasp for breath. Every way ends, every road, every foot-path leads at last to the hill-crest-- then… — Hilda Doolittle Copy Share Image
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… — Hilda Doolittle Copy Share Image
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… — Hilda Doolittle Copy Share Image
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. — Hilda Doolittle Copy Share Image
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. — Hilda Doolittle Copy Share Image
Thoth, Hermes, the stylus, the palette, the pen, the quill endure, though our books are a floor of smouldering ash under our feet. — Hilda Doolittle Copy Share Image
My eye-balls are glass, my limbs marble, my face fixed in its marble mask. — Hilda Doolittle Copy Share Image
The things I have are nameless, old and true; they may not be named; few may live and know. — Hilda Doolittle Copy Share Image
Soft are the hands of Love, but what soft hands clutched at the thorny ground, scratched like a small white ferret or foraging whippet… — Hilda Doolittle Copy Share Image
The elixir of life, the philosopher's stone is yours if you surrender sterile logic, trivial reason. — Hilda Doolittle Copy Share Image
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 . . . — Hilda Doolittle Copy Share Image
