H.D. Quotes

Yet for all your arrogance
and your glance,
I tell you this:
such loss is no loss,
such terror, such coils and strands and pitfalls
of blackness
such terror
is no loss;
hell is no worse than your earth
above the earth,
hell is no worse,
no, nor your flowers
nor your veins of light
nor your presence,
a loss;
my hell is no worse than yours
though you pass among the flowers and speak
with the spirits above the earth.

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!)

Hermione looked far and far and George was a midge and a leaf was the size of a house and an acorn-cup would shelter herself ... for ... I am a tree planted by the river of water ... I am in the word tree. I am tree exactly.

You can't live on nothing." "I can live on sunlight falling across little bridges. I can live on the Botticelli-blue cornflower pattern on the out-billowing garments of the attendant to Aphrodite and the pattern of strawberry blossoms and the little daisies in the robe of Primavera. I can live on the doves flying (he says) in cohorts from the underside of the faded gilt of the balcony of Saint Mark's cathedral and the long corridors of the Pitti Palace. I can gorge myself on Rome and the naked Bacchus and the face like a blasted lightning-blasted white birch that is some sort of Fury.

I am not Undine for Undine or the Little Mermaid sold her glory for feet. Undine (or the Little Mermaid) couldn't speak after she sold her glory. I will not sell my glory.

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.

Nothing held her, she was nothing holding to this thing: I am Hermione Gart, a failure.

That odd infallible sliding-like-crystal air on water that means day's left dawn for morning.

There is no faith and no hope
without sleep.

Let us search the old highways.

I first tasted under Apollo's lips,
love and love sweetness,
I, Evadne;
my hair is made of crisp violets
or hyacinth which the wind combs back
across some rock shelf;
I, Evadne,
was made of the god of light.
His hair was crisp to my mouth,
as the flower of the crocus,
across my cheek,
cool as the silver-cress
on Erotos bank;
between my chin and throat,
his mouth slipped over and over.
Still between my arm and shoulder,
I feel the brush of his hair,
and my hands keep the gold they took,
as they wandered over and over,
that great arm-full of yellow flowers.

Oread"

Whirl up, sea -
whirl your pointed pines,
splash your great pines
on our rocks,
hurl your green over us,
cover us with your pools of fir.

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There's a black rose growing in your garden.

Let us not teach / what we have learned badly / and not profited by

Could beauty be caught and hurt
they had done her to death with their sneers
in ages and ages past,
could beauty be sacrificed
for a thrust of a sword,
for a piece of thin money
tossed up to fall half alloy
then beauty were dead
long, long before we saw her face.

Writing. Love is writing.

I will be caught finally, I will be broken. Not broken, incarcerated. Her will be incarcerated in Her.

We are voyagers, discoverers
of the not-known,
the unrecorded;
we have no map;
possibly we will reach haven,
heaven.

She knew herself the heart of a king buried in a sepulchre (in the land of his love) while the body of the king is elsewhere. My heart lies buried in there like Coeur de Lion (or whoever it was) who had his heart buried at Havre (or wherever it was) and the rest of him buried somewhere else.

Storm
H. D., 1886 - 1961

You crash over the trees,
you crack the live branch -
the branch is white,
the green crushed,
each leaf is rent like split wood.

You burden the trees
with black drops,
you swirl and crash -
you have broken off a weighted leaf
in the wind,
it is hurled out,
whirls up and sinks,
a green stone.

She wants suddenly to make it somewhere, this surcharged darkness is all-earth. She wants to be established on the surface of this. She wants to talk in a banal way to a banal person. Tomorrow will go on like yesterday and there will be no break in continuity, no ripple on the surface to show the Norridges of this world, where they have been. She wishes, for a moment, she could stabilize it, look forward to some simple, silly thing, an excursion to the Rialto or some hunt through Florentine byways, for a shop to mend her earrings. She wants to see herself, silly as all that, with earrings, not disembodied, with silver before her and inchoate rock at her back.

She did not look at the daffodils. They didn't mean anything. She looked at the daffodils. She said, 'Thank you for the daffodils.

She wanted George with some uncorrelated sector of Her Gart, she wanted George to correlate for her, life here, there. She wanted George to define and to make definable a mirage, a reflection of some lost incarnation, a wood maniac, a tree demon, a neuropathic dendrophile ... She wanted George to make the thing an integral, herself integrity. She wanted George to make one of his drastic statements that would dynamite her world away for her. She wanted this, but even as she wanted it she let herself sink further, further, she saw that her two hands reached toward George like the hands of a drowned girl. She knew she was not drowned. Where others would drown-lost, suffocated in this element-she knew that she lived. She had no complete right yet to this element, hands struggled to be pulled out. White hands waved above the water like sea spume or inland-growing pond flowers ... She wanted George to pull her out, she wanted George to push her in, let Her be drowned utterly.

It is easy enough to call men
from the edges of the earth.
It is easy enough to summon them to my feet
with a thought–
it is beautiful to see the tall panther
and the sleek deer-hounds
circle in the dark.
It is easy enough
to make cedar and white ash fumes
into palaces
and to cover the sea-caves
with ivory and onyx.

But I would give up
rock-fringes of coral
and the inmost chamber
of my island palace
and my own gifts
and the whole region
of my power and magic
for your glance.

Words were her plague and words were her redemption.

I have tasted words, I have seen them. Never had her hands reached out in darkness and felt the texture of pure marble, never had her forehead bent forward and, as against a stone altar, felt safety. I am now saved. Her mind could not then so specifically have seen it, could not have said, Now I will reveal myself in words, words may now supercede a scheme of mathematical-biological definition. Words may be my heritage and with words ... A lady will be set back in the sky ... there was hope in a block of unsubstantiated marble, words could carve and set up solid altars ... Thought followed the wing that beat its silver into seven-branched larch boughs.

Run run run Hermione. You have in your hands a message and a token ... run and run and run and run Hermione. You know running and running and running that the messenger will take (lampadephoros) your message in its fervour and you will sink down exhausted ... run,run, Hermione. For the message-bearer next in line has turned against you ... dead, dead or forgotten. Hecate at crossroads, a destruction ...

We strove for a name,
while the light of the lamps burnt thin
and the outer dawn came in,
a ghost, the last at the feast
or the first,
to sit within
with the two that remained
to quibble in flowers and verse
over a girl's name.

O do not weep, she says,
for ages past I was
and I endure