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Poem by Hilda Doolittle
We flung against their gods, invincible, clear hate; we fought; frantic, we flung the last imperious, desperate shaft and lost: we knew the loss before they ever guessed fortune had tossed to them her favour and her whim; but how were we depressed? we lost yet as we pressed our spearsmen on their best, we knew their line invincible because there fell on them no shiverings of the white enchanteress, radiant Aphrodite’s spell: we hurled our shafts of passion, noblest hate, and knew their cause was blest, and knew their gods were nobler, better taught in skill, subtler with wit of thought, yet had it been God’s will that _they_ not we should fall, we know those fields had bled with roses lesser red.
Hilda Doolittle's other poems:
English Poetry. E-mail firstname.lastname@example.org