H.D. (born Hilda Doolittle) was an American poet, novelist and memoirist known for her association with the early 20th century avant-garde Imagist group of poets such as Ezra Pound and Richard Aldington. The Imagist model was based on the idioms, rhythms and clarity of common speech, and freedom to choose subject matter as the writer saw fit. H.D.'s later writing developed on this aesthetic to incorporate a more female-centric version of modernism.
H.D. was born in Pennsylvania in 1886, and moved to London in 1911 where her publications earned her a central role within the then emerging Imagism movement. A charismatic figure, she was championed by the modernist poet Ezra Pound, ... more »
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Hilda Doolittle Poems
All Greece hates the still eyes in the white face, the lustre as of olives where she stands,
The Mysteries Remain
The mysteries remain, I keep the same cycle of seed-time and of sun and rain;
Silver dust lifted from the earth, higher than my arms reach, you have mounted.
O wind, rend open the heat, cut apart the heat, rend it to tatters.
Rose, harsh rose, marred and with stint of petals, meagre flower, thin, sparse of leaf,
I have had enough. I gasp for breath. Every way ends, every road,
Are you alive? I touch you. You quiver like a sea-fish. I cover you with my net.
Where the slow river meets the tide, a red swan lifts red wings and darker beak,
Whirl up, sea— Whirl your pointed pines. Splash your great pines On our rocks.
1. Each of us like you has died once,
Over and back, the long waves crawl and track the sand with foam; night darkens, and the sea
I should have thought in a dream you would have brought some lovely, perilous thing, orchids piled in a great sheath,
Bear me to Dictaeus, and to the steep slopes; to the river Erymanthus.
Stars Wheel in Purple
Stars wheel in purple, yours is not so rare as Hesperus, nor yet so great a star as bright Aldeboran or Sirius, nor yet the stained and brilliant one of War;
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(31 October 1795 – 23 February 1821)
All Greece hates
the still eyes in the white face,
the lustre as of olives
where she stands,
and the white hands.
All Greece reviles
the wan face when she smiles,
hating it deeper still
when it grows wan and white,
remembering past enchantments
and past ills.
Greece sees, unmoved,
God's daughter, born of love,
the beauty of cool feet
and slenderest knees,
could love indeed the maid,
only if she were laid,
white ash amid funereal cypresses.