Projector

 

Freepik

Light takes new attribute

and yet his old

glory

enchants;

not this,

not this, they say,

lord as he was of the hieratic dance,

of poetry

and majesty

and pomp,

master of shrines and gateways

and of doors,

of markets

and the cross-road

and the street;

not this,

they say;

but we say otherwise

and greet

light

in new attribute,

insidious fire;

light reasserts

his power

reclaims the lost;

in a new blaze of splendour

calls the host

to reassemble

and to readjust

all severings

and differings of thought,

all strife and strident bickering

and rest;

O fair and blest,

he strides forth young and pitiful and strong, 

a king of blazing splendour and of gold,

and all the evil

and the tyrannous wrong

that beauty suffered

finds its champion,

light

who is god

and song.

He left the place they built him

and the halls,

he strode so simply forth,

they knew him not;

no man deceived him,

no,

nor ever will,

with meagre counterfeit

of ancient rite,

he knows all hearts

and all imagining

of plot

and counterplot

and mimicry,

this measuring of beauty with a rod, 

no formula

could hold him

and no threat

recall him

who is god.

Yet he returns,

O unrecorded grace, 

over

and under

and through us 

and about;

the stage is set now

for his mighty rays;

light,

light that batters gloom,

the Pythian

lifts up a fair head

in a lowly place,

he shows his splendour

in a little room;

he says to us,

be glad

and laugh,

be gay;

I have returned

though in an evil day

you crouched despairingly

who had no shrine;

we had no temple and no temple fire 

for all these said

and mouthed

and said again;

beauty is an endighter

and is power

of city

and of soldiery

and might,

beauty is city

and the state

and dour duty,

beauty is this and this and this dull thing, 

forgetting who was king.

Yet still he moves

alert,

invidious,

this serpent creeping

and this shaft of light,

his arrows slay

and still his footsteps

dart

gold

in the market-place;

vision returns

and with new vision

fresh

hope

to the impotent;

tired feet that never knew a hill-slope 

tread

fabulous mountain sides;

worn

dusty feet

sink in soft drift of pine

needles

and anodyne

of balm and fir and myrtle-trees

and cones

drift across weary brows

and the sea-foam

marks the sea-path

where no sea ever comes;

islands arise where never islands were,

crowned with the sacred palm

or odorous cedar;

waves sparkle and delight

the weary eyes

that never saw the sun fall in the sea 

nor the bright Pleaiads rise.

H.D.

We Two

We two are left:

I with small grace reveal

distaste and bitterness; 

you with small patience

take my hands;

though effortless, 

you scald their weight

as a bowl, lined with embers,

wherein droop 

great petals of white rose,

forced by the heat

too soon to break.

We two are left:

as a blank wall, the world,

earth and the men who talk,

saying their space of life

is good and gracious, 

with eyes blank

as that blank surface 

their ignorance mistakes

for final shelter

and a resting-place. 

We two remain:

yet by what miracle,

searching within the tangles of my brain,

I ask again,

have we two met within

this maze of dædal paths

in-wound mid grievous stone,

where once I stood alone?

H.D.

(Hilda Doolittle) 

Circe

 

It was easy enough

to bend them to my wish,

it was easy enough

to alter them with a touch,

but you

adrift on the great sea,

how shall I call you back?

Cedar and white ash,

rock-cedar and sand plants

and tamarisk

red cedar and white cedar

and black cedar from the inmost forest,

fragrance upon fragrance

and all of my sea-magic is for nought.

It was easy enough -

a thought called them

from the sharp edges of the earth;

they prayed for a touch,

they cried for the sight of my face,

they entreated me

till in pity

I turned each to his own self.

Panther and panther,

then a black leopard

follows close -

black panther and red

and a great hound,

a god-like beast,

cut the sand in a clear ring

and shut me from the earth,

and cover the sea-sound

with their throats,

and the sea-roar with their own barks

and bellowing and snarls,

and the sea-stars

and the swirl of the sand,

and the rock-tamarisk

and the wind resonance -

but not your voice.

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. 

Hilda Doolittle