“We're incandescent and it doesn't seem fair." "Fair?" "I mean too much comes to some of us, not enought to all the rest of us. So few of us to do the thinking. I mean so few of us have… — 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
