'T is true that I am gay,
Quite gay, for I have her alone here And no man troubleth us.
Quite gay, for I have her alone here And no man troubleth us.
Ezra-Pound-Provenca-English
?
Provenca J
of
Ezra Pound
? University of California Berkeley
? PROVEN9A
? PRO VENCA
POEMS
SELECTED FROM PERSONAE, EXULTATIONS, AND CANZONIERE
OF
EZRA POUND
BOSTON
SMALL, MAYNARD AND COMPANY PUBLISHERS
? Copyright, 1910, BY EZRA POUND
THE UNIVERSITY PRESS, CAMBRIDGE, U. S. A.
? THE TREE
CONTENTS
PERSONAE
LA FRAISNE 5 CINO 7 NA AUDIART
VILLONAUD FOR THIS YULE II A VILLONAUD, BALLAD OF THE GIBBET 12 MESMERISM 14 FAMAM LIBROSQUE CANO
IN TEMPORE SENECTUTIS 17
CAMARADERIE
FOR E. McC.
BALLAD FOR GLOOM 2O AT THE HEART O? ME 21
REVOLT AGAINST THE CREPUSCULAR SPIRIT IN MODERN POETRY 28
22 AN IDYL FOR GLAUCUS 22 MARVOIL 26 IN THE OLD AGE OF THE SOUL 28
AND THUS IN NINEVEH THE WHITE STAG PICCADILLY
EXULTATIONS NIGHT LITANY
SESTINA: ALTAFORTE
BALLAD OF THE GOODLY FERE
PORTRAIT
THE EYES
NILS LYKKE
"FAIR HELENA" BY RACKHAM
GREEK EPIGRAM
HISTRION
PARACELSUS IN EXCELSIS 46 A SONG OF THE VIRGIN MOTHER
9
IS
1 8
19
30 31 31
37 39 41 43 43 44 45 45 46
47
? EXULTATIONS, continued SONG
PLANH FOR THE YOUNG ENGLISH KING ALBA INNOMINATA
LAUDANTES
PLANH
CANZONIERE OCTAVE
SONNET IN TENZONE SONNET
CANZON: THE YEARLY SLAIN CANZON: THE SPEAR CANZON
CANZON: OF INCENSE CANZONE : OF ANGELS SONNET: CHI E QUESTA? OF GRACE
CANZON: THE VISION
TO OUR LADY OF VICARIOUS ATONEMENT EPILOGUE
NOTES
? PERSONAE
? "Make-strong old dreams lest this our world Lose heart"
? TO MARY MOORE
? LA FRAISNE1
SCENE : The Ash Wood of Malvern.
FOR I was a gaunt, grave councillor
Being in all things wise, and very old, But I have put aside this folly and the cold That old age weareth for a cloak.
I was quite strong at least they said so The young men at the sword-play;
But I have put aside this folly, being gay In another fashion that more suiteth me.
I have curled mid the boles of the ash wood, I have hidden my face where the oak Spread his leaves over me, and the yoke
Of the old ways of men have I cast aside.
By the still pool of Mar-nan-otha
Have I found me a bride
That was a dog-wood tree some syne. She hath called me from mine old ways, She hath hushed my rancour of council, Bidding me praise
Naught but the wind that flutters in the leaves.
She hath drawn me from mine old ways,
Till men say that I am mad;
But I have seen the sorrow of men, and am glad, For I know that the wailing and bitterness are a folly. And I ? I have put aside all folly and all grief.
1 Prefatorynoteatendofthevolume.
? LaFraisnel wrapped my tears in an ellum leaf And left them under a stone,
And now men call me mad because I have thrown All folly from me, putting it aside
To leave the old barren ways of men,
Because my bride
Is a pool of the wood, and
Though all men say that I am mad
It is only that I am glad,
Very glad, for my bride hath toward me a great love Which is sweeter than the love of women
That plague and burn and drive one away.
Aie-e ! 'T is true that I am gay,
Quite gay, for I have her alone here And no man troubleth us.
Once when I was among the young men . . . .
And they said I was quite strong, among the young men.
Once there was a woman . . . .
. . . . but I forget . . . . she was . . . . . . . . I hope she will not come again.
. . . . I do not remember . . . .
I think she hurt me once, but . . . . That was very long ago.
I do not like to remember things any more.
I like one little band of winds that blow In the ash trees here:
For we are quite alone
Here amid the ash trees.
6
? CINO
ITALIAN CAMPAGNA 1309, THE OPEN-ROAD
AH ! I have sung women in three cities,
B'
And I will sing of the sun.
But it is all the
same;
Lips, words, and you snare them, Dreams, words, and they are as jewels, Strange spells of old deity,
Ravens, nights, allurement:
And they are not;
Having become the souls of song.
Eyes, dreams, lips, and the night goes. Being upon the road once more,
They are not.
Forgetful in their towers of our tuneing
Once for Wind-runeing They dream us-toward and
"
Sighing, say,
Passionate Cino, of the wrinkling eyes,
Gay Cino, of quick laughter,
Cino, of the dare, the jibe,
Frail Cino, strongest of his tribe
That tramp old ways beneath the sun-light, Would Cino of the Luth were here! "
Once, twice, a year Vaguely thus word they:
"Cino? " "Oh, eh, Cino Polnesi The singer is 't you mean? " "Ah yes, passed once our way,
A saucy fellow, but . . . .
7
Would Cino,
? Cino
(Oh, they are all one, these vagabonds), Peste ! 't is his own songs ?
Or some other's that he sings?
But you, My Lord, how with your city?
But you "My Lord," God's pity!
And all I knew were out, My Lord, you Were Lack-land Cino, e'en as I am,
Sinistro.
1 have sung women in three cities.
But it is all one.
I will sing of the sun.
. . . . eh? . . . . they mostly had grey eyes, But it is all one, I will sing of the sun.
"Tollo Phoibee, old tin pan, you Glory to Zeus' aegis-day,
Shield o' steel-blue, th' heaven o'er us Hath for boss thy lustre gay !
Tollo Phoibee, to our way-fare Make thy laugh our wander-lied; Bid thy 'fulgence bear away care. Cloud and rain-tears pass they fleet I
Seeking e'er the new-laid rast-way To the gardens of the sun
I have sung women in three cities But it is all one.
I will sing of the white birds
In the blue waters of heaven,
The clouds that are spray to its sea.
8
? NA AUDIART
"QUE BE-M VOLS MAL"
Any one who has read anything of the troubadours knows well the tale of Bertran of Born and My Lady Maent of Mon- taignac, and knows also the song he made when she would none
her love-lit glance, of Aelis her speech free-running, of the Vicomp- tess of Chales her throat and her two hands, at Roacoart of Anhes her hair golden as Iseult's ; and even in this fashion of Lady Audiart, " although she would that ill come unto him" he sought
and praised the lineaments of the torse. And all this to make ""
Una dompna soiseubuda a borrowed lady or, as the Italians
translated it,
" Una donna ideale. "
thou well dost wish me ill," Audiart, Audiart,
THOUGH
Where thy bodice laces start
As ivy fingers clutching through Its crevices,
Audiart, Audiart, Stately, tall and lovely tender
Who shall render,
Audiart, Audiart, Praises meet unto thy fashion?
Here a word kiss !
Pass I on Unto Lady "Miels-de-Ben,"
Having praised thy girdle's scope, How the stays ply back from it; I breathe no hope
That thou shouldst . . . .
Nay, no whit Bespeak thyself for anything.
Just a word in thy praise, girl, Just for the swirl
9
? Na Thy satins make upon the stair,
Audiart >
\
Cause never a flaw was there Where thy torse and limbs are met: Though thou hate me, read it set
1
In rose and gold.
Or when the minstrel, tale half told, Shall burst to lilting at the phrase
"Audiart, Audiart"
Bertrans, master of his lays, Bertrans of Aultaforte thy praise
Sets forth, and though thou hate me well, Yea, though thou wish me ill,
Audiart, Audiart Thy loveliness is here writ till,
Audiart,
2
Oh, till thou come again.
And being bent and wrinkled, in a form That hath no perfect limning, when the warm Youth dew is cold
Upon thy hands, and thy old soul,
Scorning a new, wry'd casement,
Churlish at seemed misplacement,
Finds the earth as bitter
As now seems it sweet,
Being so young and fair
As then only in dreams
Being then young and wry'd,
Broken of ancient pride,
Thou shalt then soften,
1 7. e. in illumed manuscript. IO
2 Reincarnate.
? Knowing I know not how Na
Audiart
Thou wert once she,
For whose fairness one forgave, Que be-m vols mal.
VILLONAUD FOR THIS YULE HTOWARDS the Noel that morte saison
-L (Christ make the shepherds' homage dear! ) Then when the grey wolves everychone Drink of the winds their chill small-beer And lap o' the snows food's gueredon,
Then maketh my heart his yule-tide cheer (Skoal ! with the dregs if the clear be gone ! ) Wincing the ghosts of yester-year.
Ask ye what ghosts I dream upon? (What of the magians' scented gear? )
The ghosts of dead loves everyone
That make the stark winds reek with fear
Lest love return with the foison sun And slay the memories that me cheer (Such as I drink to mine fashion) Wincing the ghosts of yester-year.
Where are the joys my heart had won? (Saturn and Mars to Zeus drawn near! ) Where are the lips mine lay upon,
1
1
Audiart, Audiart,
Audiart, Audiart
Signum Nativitatis* II
? Vittonaud Aye ! where are the glances feat and clear
J Yuie
That bade my heart his valour don?
I skoal to the eyes as grey-blown mere (Who knows whose was that paragon? )
Wincing the ghosts of yester-year.
Prince: ask me not what I have done, Nor what God hath that can me cheer, But ye ask first where the winds are gone Wincing the ghosts of yester-year.
A VILLONAUD, BALLAD OF THE GIBBET OR, THE SONG OF THE SIXTH COMPANION
SCENE: "En cest bourdel ou tenoms nostr estat. "
It being remembered that there were six of us with Master Villon, when that expecting presently to be hanged he writ a ballad whereof ye know :
"
Frtres humftins qui aprls nous vivez" NK ye a skoal for the gallows tree !
me, Who said us, "Till then" for the gallows tree!
Fat Pierre with the hook gauche-main,
Thomas Larron "Ear-the-less," Tybalde and that armouress
Who gave this poignard its premier stain Pinning the Guise that had been fain
To make him a mate of the "Haulte Noblesse" And bade her be out with ill address
As a fool that mocketh his drue's disdeign.
DRI Fr
an
cois and and thee and
Margot Drink we the comrades merrily
? Drink we a skoal for the gallows tree ! Francoi-s and Margot and thee and me,
A Vi%tton-
fjf
lad of the
Gibbet
T^
Drink we to Manenne Ydole,
That hell brenn not her o'er cruelly.
i
.
TVT TT-J i
Drink we the lusty robbers twain,
Black is the pitch o' their wedding dress, Lips shrunk back for the wind's caress
As lips shrink back when we feel the strain Of love that loveth in hell's disdeign
And sense the teeth through the lips that press 'Gainst our lips for the soul's distress
That striveth to ours across the pain.
Drink we skoal to the gallows tree!
Francois and Margot and thee and me,
For Jehan and Raoul de Vallerie
Whose frames have the night and its winds in fee
Maturin, Guillaume, Jacques d'Allmain, Culdou, lacking a coat to bless
One lean moiety of his nakedness,
That plundered St. Hubert back o' the fane: Aie ! the lean bare tree is widowed again For Michault le Borgne that would confess In "faith and troth" to a traitoress,
"Which of his brothers had he slain? "
But drink we skoal to the gallows tree ! Francois and Margot and thee and me:
1 Certain gibbeted corpses used to be coated with tar as a pre- servative ; thus one scarecrow served as warning for considerable time. See Hugo, " L'Homme qui Rit. "
13
1
? A Villon- These that we loved shall God love less
fadoftfie Gibbet
^nc* sm*te alwav at their feebleness?
Skoal ! 1 to the Gallows ! and then pray we: God damn his hell out speedily
And bring their souls to his High City.
MESMERISM
"And a cat 's in the water-butt. " ROBERT BROWNING.
YE, you 're a man that ! ye old mesmerizer !
Tyin' your meanin' in seventy swadelin's, One must of needs be a hang'd early riser
To catch you at worm turning. Holy Odd's bodykins !
"Cat 's i' the water-butt! " Thought 's in your
verse-barrel,
Tell us this thing rather, then we '11 believe you,
You, Master Bob Browning, spite your apparel Jump to your sense and give praise as we 'd lief do.
You wheeze as a head-cold long-tonsilled Calliope, But,God! whatasightyouha'goto'ourin'ards, Mad as a hatter but surely no Myope,
Broad as all ocean and leanin' mankin'ards.
Heart that was big as the bowels of Vesuvius, Words that were wing'd as her sparks in eruption^
Eagled and thundered as Jupiter Pluvius, Sound in your wind past all signs o' corruption.
14
? Here 's to you, Old Hippety-hop o' the accents, True to the Truth's sake and crafty dissector,
You grabbed at the gold sure; had no need to pack cents
Into your versicles.
Clear sight's elector !
Mesmer- ism
FAMAM LIBROSQUE CANO songs?
YOUR Oh
!
The little mothers
Will sing them in the twilight, And when the night
Shrinketh the kiss of the dawn That loves and kills,
What time the swallow fills
Her note, the little rabbit folk
That some call children,
Such as are up and wide
Will laugh your verses to each other, Pulling on their shoes for the day's business, Serious child business that the world Laughs at, and grows stale;
Such is the tale
Part of it of thy song-life. Mine?
A book is known by them that read Thatsame. Thypublicinmyscreed
Is listed. Well ! Some score years hence Behold mine audience,
As we had seen him yesterday.
15
? Famam
Scrawny, be-spectacled, out at heels,
Such an one as the wor d feels !
A sort of curse against its guzzling
And its age-lasting wallow for red greed
And yet, full speed
Though it should run for its own getting, Will turn aside to sneer at
'Cause he hath
No coin, no will to snatch the aftermath Of Mammon.
Such an one as women draw away from For the tobacco ashes scattered on his coat And sith his throat
Show razor's unfamiliarity And three days' beard:
Such an one picking a ragged Backless copy from the stall,
Too cheap for cataloguing, Loquitur,
"Ah-eh! the strange rare name .
Ah-eh ! He must be rare if even / have not And lost mid-page
Such age
As his pardons the habit,
He analyzes form and thought to see
How I 'scaped immortality.
16
. .
? TEMPORE SENECTUTIS OR we are old
And the earth passion dieth;
We have watched him die a thousand times, When he wanes an old wind crieth,
For we are old
And passion hath died for us a thousand times
But we grew never weary.
Memory faileth, as the lotus-loved chimes
Sink into fluttering of wind, But we grow never weary For we are old.
The strange night-wonder of your eyes Dies not, though passion flieth
Along the star fields of Arcturus And is no more unto our hands;
My lips are cold
And yet we twain are never weary,
And the strange night-wonder is upon us,
The leaves hold our wonder in their flutterings, The wind fills our mouths with strange words
For our wonder that grows not old.
'T is true that I am gay,
Quite gay, for I have her alone here And no man troubleth us.
Once when I was among the young men . . . .
And they said I was quite strong, among the young men.
Once there was a woman . . . .
. . . . but I forget . . . . she was . . . . . . . . I hope she will not come again.
. . . . I do not remember . . . .
I think she hurt me once, but . . . . That was very long ago.
I do not like to remember things any more.
I like one little band of winds that blow In the ash trees here:
For we are quite alone
Here amid the ash trees.
6
? CINO
ITALIAN CAMPAGNA 1309, THE OPEN-ROAD
AH ! I have sung women in three cities,
B'
And I will sing of the sun.
But it is all the
same;
Lips, words, and you snare them, Dreams, words, and they are as jewels, Strange spells of old deity,
Ravens, nights, allurement:
And they are not;
Having become the souls of song.
Eyes, dreams, lips, and the night goes. Being upon the road once more,
They are not.
Forgetful in their towers of our tuneing
Once for Wind-runeing They dream us-toward and
"
Sighing, say,
Passionate Cino, of the wrinkling eyes,
Gay Cino, of quick laughter,
Cino, of the dare, the jibe,
Frail Cino, strongest of his tribe
That tramp old ways beneath the sun-light, Would Cino of the Luth were here! "
Once, twice, a year Vaguely thus word they:
"Cino? " "Oh, eh, Cino Polnesi The singer is 't you mean? " "Ah yes, passed once our way,
A saucy fellow, but . . . .
7
Would Cino,
? Cino
(Oh, they are all one, these vagabonds), Peste ! 't is his own songs ?
Or some other's that he sings?
But you, My Lord, how with your city?
But you "My Lord," God's pity!
And all I knew were out, My Lord, you Were Lack-land Cino, e'en as I am,
Sinistro.
1 have sung women in three cities.
But it is all one.
I will sing of the sun.
. . . . eh? . . . . they mostly had grey eyes, But it is all one, I will sing of the sun.
"Tollo Phoibee, old tin pan, you Glory to Zeus' aegis-day,
Shield o' steel-blue, th' heaven o'er us Hath for boss thy lustre gay !
Tollo Phoibee, to our way-fare Make thy laugh our wander-lied; Bid thy 'fulgence bear away care. Cloud and rain-tears pass they fleet I
Seeking e'er the new-laid rast-way To the gardens of the sun
I have sung women in three cities But it is all one.
I will sing of the white birds
In the blue waters of heaven,
The clouds that are spray to its sea.
8
? NA AUDIART
"QUE BE-M VOLS MAL"
Any one who has read anything of the troubadours knows well the tale of Bertran of Born and My Lady Maent of Mon- taignac, and knows also the song he made when she would none
her love-lit glance, of Aelis her speech free-running, of the Vicomp- tess of Chales her throat and her two hands, at Roacoart of Anhes her hair golden as Iseult's ; and even in this fashion of Lady Audiart, " although she would that ill come unto him" he sought
and praised the lineaments of the torse. And all this to make ""
Una dompna soiseubuda a borrowed lady or, as the Italians
translated it,
" Una donna ideale. "
thou well dost wish me ill," Audiart, Audiart,
THOUGH
Where thy bodice laces start
As ivy fingers clutching through Its crevices,
Audiart, Audiart, Stately, tall and lovely tender
Who shall render,
Audiart, Audiart, Praises meet unto thy fashion?
Here a word kiss !
Pass I on Unto Lady "Miels-de-Ben,"
Having praised thy girdle's scope, How the stays ply back from it; I breathe no hope
That thou shouldst . . . .
Nay, no whit Bespeak thyself for anything.
Just a word in thy praise, girl, Just for the swirl
9
? Na Thy satins make upon the stair,
Audiart >
\
Cause never a flaw was there Where thy torse and limbs are met: Though thou hate me, read it set
1
In rose and gold.
Or when the minstrel, tale half told, Shall burst to lilting at the phrase
"Audiart, Audiart"
Bertrans, master of his lays, Bertrans of Aultaforte thy praise
Sets forth, and though thou hate me well, Yea, though thou wish me ill,
Audiart, Audiart Thy loveliness is here writ till,
Audiart,
2
Oh, till thou come again.
And being bent and wrinkled, in a form That hath no perfect limning, when the warm Youth dew is cold
Upon thy hands, and thy old soul,
Scorning a new, wry'd casement,
Churlish at seemed misplacement,
Finds the earth as bitter
As now seems it sweet,
Being so young and fair
As then only in dreams
Being then young and wry'd,
Broken of ancient pride,
Thou shalt then soften,
1 7. e. in illumed manuscript. IO
2 Reincarnate.
? Knowing I know not how Na
Audiart
Thou wert once she,
For whose fairness one forgave, Que be-m vols mal.
VILLONAUD FOR THIS YULE HTOWARDS the Noel that morte saison
-L (Christ make the shepherds' homage dear! ) Then when the grey wolves everychone Drink of the winds their chill small-beer And lap o' the snows food's gueredon,
Then maketh my heart his yule-tide cheer (Skoal ! with the dregs if the clear be gone ! ) Wincing the ghosts of yester-year.
Ask ye what ghosts I dream upon? (What of the magians' scented gear? )
The ghosts of dead loves everyone
That make the stark winds reek with fear
Lest love return with the foison sun And slay the memories that me cheer (Such as I drink to mine fashion) Wincing the ghosts of yester-year.
Where are the joys my heart had won? (Saturn and Mars to Zeus drawn near! ) Where are the lips mine lay upon,
1
1
Audiart, Audiart,
Audiart, Audiart
Signum Nativitatis* II
? Vittonaud Aye ! where are the glances feat and clear
J Yuie
That bade my heart his valour don?
I skoal to the eyes as grey-blown mere (Who knows whose was that paragon? )
Wincing the ghosts of yester-year.
Prince: ask me not what I have done, Nor what God hath that can me cheer, But ye ask first where the winds are gone Wincing the ghosts of yester-year.
A VILLONAUD, BALLAD OF THE GIBBET OR, THE SONG OF THE SIXTH COMPANION
SCENE: "En cest bourdel ou tenoms nostr estat. "
It being remembered that there were six of us with Master Villon, when that expecting presently to be hanged he writ a ballad whereof ye know :
"
Frtres humftins qui aprls nous vivez" NK ye a skoal for the gallows tree !
me, Who said us, "Till then" for the gallows tree!
Fat Pierre with the hook gauche-main,
Thomas Larron "Ear-the-less," Tybalde and that armouress
Who gave this poignard its premier stain Pinning the Guise that had been fain
To make him a mate of the "Haulte Noblesse" And bade her be out with ill address
As a fool that mocketh his drue's disdeign.
DRI Fr
an
cois and and thee and
Margot Drink we the comrades merrily
? Drink we a skoal for the gallows tree ! Francoi-s and Margot and thee and me,
A Vi%tton-
fjf
lad of the
Gibbet
T^
Drink we to Manenne Ydole,
That hell brenn not her o'er cruelly.
i
.
TVT TT-J i
Drink we the lusty robbers twain,
Black is the pitch o' their wedding dress, Lips shrunk back for the wind's caress
As lips shrink back when we feel the strain Of love that loveth in hell's disdeign
And sense the teeth through the lips that press 'Gainst our lips for the soul's distress
That striveth to ours across the pain.
Drink we skoal to the gallows tree!
Francois and Margot and thee and me,
For Jehan and Raoul de Vallerie
Whose frames have the night and its winds in fee
Maturin, Guillaume, Jacques d'Allmain, Culdou, lacking a coat to bless
One lean moiety of his nakedness,
That plundered St. Hubert back o' the fane: Aie ! the lean bare tree is widowed again For Michault le Borgne that would confess In "faith and troth" to a traitoress,
"Which of his brothers had he slain? "
But drink we skoal to the gallows tree ! Francois and Margot and thee and me:
1 Certain gibbeted corpses used to be coated with tar as a pre- servative ; thus one scarecrow served as warning for considerable time. See Hugo, " L'Homme qui Rit. "
13
1
? A Villon- These that we loved shall God love less
fadoftfie Gibbet
^nc* sm*te alwav at their feebleness?
Skoal ! 1 to the Gallows ! and then pray we: God damn his hell out speedily
And bring their souls to his High City.
MESMERISM
"And a cat 's in the water-butt. " ROBERT BROWNING.
YE, you 're a man that ! ye old mesmerizer !
Tyin' your meanin' in seventy swadelin's, One must of needs be a hang'd early riser
To catch you at worm turning. Holy Odd's bodykins !
"Cat 's i' the water-butt! " Thought 's in your
verse-barrel,
Tell us this thing rather, then we '11 believe you,
You, Master Bob Browning, spite your apparel Jump to your sense and give praise as we 'd lief do.
You wheeze as a head-cold long-tonsilled Calliope, But,God! whatasightyouha'goto'ourin'ards, Mad as a hatter but surely no Myope,
Broad as all ocean and leanin' mankin'ards.
Heart that was big as the bowels of Vesuvius, Words that were wing'd as her sparks in eruption^
Eagled and thundered as Jupiter Pluvius, Sound in your wind past all signs o' corruption.
14
? Here 's to you, Old Hippety-hop o' the accents, True to the Truth's sake and crafty dissector,
You grabbed at the gold sure; had no need to pack cents
Into your versicles.
Clear sight's elector !
Mesmer- ism
FAMAM LIBROSQUE CANO songs?
YOUR Oh
!
The little mothers
Will sing them in the twilight, And when the night
Shrinketh the kiss of the dawn That loves and kills,
What time the swallow fills
Her note, the little rabbit folk
That some call children,
Such as are up and wide
Will laugh your verses to each other, Pulling on their shoes for the day's business, Serious child business that the world Laughs at, and grows stale;
Such is the tale
Part of it of thy song-life. Mine?
A book is known by them that read Thatsame. Thypublicinmyscreed
Is listed. Well ! Some score years hence Behold mine audience,
As we had seen him yesterday.
15
? Famam
Scrawny, be-spectacled, out at heels,
Such an one as the wor d feels !
A sort of curse against its guzzling
And its age-lasting wallow for red greed
And yet, full speed
Though it should run for its own getting, Will turn aside to sneer at
'Cause he hath
No coin, no will to snatch the aftermath Of Mammon.
Such an one as women draw away from For the tobacco ashes scattered on his coat And sith his throat
Show razor's unfamiliarity And three days' beard:
Such an one picking a ragged Backless copy from the stall,
Too cheap for cataloguing, Loquitur,
"Ah-eh! the strange rare name .
Ah-eh ! He must be rare if even / have not And lost mid-page
Such age
As his pardons the habit,
He analyzes form and thought to see
How I 'scaped immortality.
16
. .
? TEMPORE SENECTUTIS OR we are old
And the earth passion dieth;
We have watched him die a thousand times, When he wanes an old wind crieth,
For we are old
And passion hath died for us a thousand times
But we grew never weary.
Memory faileth, as the lotus-loved chimes
Sink into fluttering of wind, But we grow never weary For we are old.
The strange night-wonder of your eyes Dies not, though passion flieth
Along the star fields of Arcturus And is no more unto our hands;
My lips are cold
And yet we twain are never weary,
And the strange night-wonder is upon us,
The leaves hold our wonder in their flutterings, The wind fills our mouths with strange words
For our wonder that grows not old.
The moth-hour of our day is upon us Holding the dawn;
There is strange Night-wonder in our eyes Because the Moth-Hour leadeth the dawn
As a maiden, holding her fingers,
The rosy, slender fingers of the dawn. "
17
? InTem- Hesaith:"Redspearsborethewarriordawn Of old
**: Strange! Love, hast thou forgotten
The red spears of the dawn, The pennants of the morning? "
She saith: "Nay, I remember, but now Cometh the Dawn, and the Moth-Hour
Together with him ; softly For we are old. "
CAMARADERIE
"Etuttogite tofossealacantpagniadimolti,quantaaliavista"
I feel thy cheek against my face
SOMETIMES soft as is the South's first breath Close-pressing,
That all the subtle earth-things summoneth To spring in wood-land and in meadow space.
Yea sometimes in a bustling man-filled place Meseemeth some-wise thy hair wandereth Across mine eyes, as mist that halloweth The air awhile and giveth all things grace.
Or on still evenings when the rain falls close There comes a tremor in the drops, and fast
My pulses run, knowing thy thought hath passed That beareth thee as doth the wind a rose.
18
nectutis. OA
,
T ,
? FOR E. McC.
THAT WAS MY COUNTER-BLADE UNDER LEONARDO TERRONE, MASTER OF FENCE
i~* ONE while your tastes were keen to you, \J Gone where the grey winds call to you,
By that high fencer, even Death,
Struck of the blade that no man parrieth;
Such is your fence, one saith, One that hath known you.
Drew you your sword most gallantly, Made you your pass most valiantly
'Gainst that grey fencer, even Death.
Gone as a gust of breath
Faith ! no man tarrieth,
"Se il cor ti manca" but it failed thee not!
"Non tifidar" it is the sword that speaks
1
Thou trusted'st in thyself and met the blade Thout mask or gauntlet, and art laid
As memorable broken blades that be
Kept as bold trophies of old pageantry.
As old Toledos past their days of war
Are kept mnemonic of the strokes they bore,
So art thou with us, being good to keep
In our heart's sword-rack, though thy sword-arm
sleep.
ENVOI
Struck of the blade that no man parrieth,
Pierced of the point that toucheth lastly all,
'Gainst that grey fencer, even Death,
Behold the shield ! He shall not take thee all.
1 Sword-rune, " If thy heart fail thee trust not in me. " 19
"In me. "
? BALLAD FOR GLOOM
God, our God, is a gallant foe FOTRhat playeth behind the veil.
I have loved my God as a child at heart That seeketh deep bosoms for rest,
I have loved my God as maid to man, But lo, this thing is best:
To love your God as a gallant foe
that plays behind the veil,
To meet your God as the night winds meet beyond Arcturus' pale.
I have played with God for a woman,
I have staked with my God for truth,
I have lost to my God as a man, clear eyed;
His dice be not of ruth.
For I am made as a naked blade, But hear ye this thing in sooth :
Who loseth to God as man to man Shall win at the turn of the game.
I have drawn my blade where the lightnings meet But the ending is the same:
Who loseth to God as the sword blades lose
Shall win at the end of the game.
For God, our God, is a gallant foe
that playeth behind the veil,
Whom God deigns not to overthrow
hath need of triple mail.
20
? AT THE HEART O' ME A. D.
of
Ezra Pound
? University of California Berkeley
? PROVEN9A
? PRO VENCA
POEMS
SELECTED FROM PERSONAE, EXULTATIONS, AND CANZONIERE
OF
EZRA POUND
BOSTON
SMALL, MAYNARD AND COMPANY PUBLISHERS
? Copyright, 1910, BY EZRA POUND
THE UNIVERSITY PRESS, CAMBRIDGE, U. S. A.
? THE TREE
CONTENTS
PERSONAE
LA FRAISNE 5 CINO 7 NA AUDIART
VILLONAUD FOR THIS YULE II A VILLONAUD, BALLAD OF THE GIBBET 12 MESMERISM 14 FAMAM LIBROSQUE CANO
IN TEMPORE SENECTUTIS 17
CAMARADERIE
FOR E. McC.
BALLAD FOR GLOOM 2O AT THE HEART O? ME 21
REVOLT AGAINST THE CREPUSCULAR SPIRIT IN MODERN POETRY 28
22 AN IDYL FOR GLAUCUS 22 MARVOIL 26 IN THE OLD AGE OF THE SOUL 28
AND THUS IN NINEVEH THE WHITE STAG PICCADILLY
EXULTATIONS NIGHT LITANY
SESTINA: ALTAFORTE
BALLAD OF THE GOODLY FERE
PORTRAIT
THE EYES
NILS LYKKE
"FAIR HELENA" BY RACKHAM
GREEK EPIGRAM
HISTRION
PARACELSUS IN EXCELSIS 46 A SONG OF THE VIRGIN MOTHER
9
IS
1 8
19
30 31 31
37 39 41 43 43 44 45 45 46
47
? EXULTATIONS, continued SONG
PLANH FOR THE YOUNG ENGLISH KING ALBA INNOMINATA
LAUDANTES
PLANH
CANZONIERE OCTAVE
SONNET IN TENZONE SONNET
CANZON: THE YEARLY SLAIN CANZON: THE SPEAR CANZON
CANZON: OF INCENSE CANZONE : OF ANGELS SONNET: CHI E QUESTA? OF GRACE
CANZON: THE VISION
TO OUR LADY OF VICARIOUS ATONEMENT EPILOGUE
NOTES
? PERSONAE
? "Make-strong old dreams lest this our world Lose heart"
? TO MARY MOORE
? LA FRAISNE1
SCENE : The Ash Wood of Malvern.
FOR I was a gaunt, grave councillor
Being in all things wise, and very old, But I have put aside this folly and the cold That old age weareth for a cloak.
I was quite strong at least they said so The young men at the sword-play;
But I have put aside this folly, being gay In another fashion that more suiteth me.
I have curled mid the boles of the ash wood, I have hidden my face where the oak Spread his leaves over me, and the yoke
Of the old ways of men have I cast aside.
By the still pool of Mar-nan-otha
Have I found me a bride
That was a dog-wood tree some syne. She hath called me from mine old ways, She hath hushed my rancour of council, Bidding me praise
Naught but the wind that flutters in the leaves.
She hath drawn me from mine old ways,
Till men say that I am mad;
But I have seen the sorrow of men, and am glad, For I know that the wailing and bitterness are a folly. And I ? I have put aside all folly and all grief.
1 Prefatorynoteatendofthevolume.
? LaFraisnel wrapped my tears in an ellum leaf And left them under a stone,
And now men call me mad because I have thrown All folly from me, putting it aside
To leave the old barren ways of men,
Because my bride
Is a pool of the wood, and
Though all men say that I am mad
It is only that I am glad,
Very glad, for my bride hath toward me a great love Which is sweeter than the love of women
That plague and burn and drive one away.
Aie-e ! 'T is true that I am gay,
Quite gay, for I have her alone here And no man troubleth us.
Once when I was among the young men . . . .
And they said I was quite strong, among the young men.
Once there was a woman . . . .
. . . . but I forget . . . . she was . . . . . . . . I hope she will not come again.
. . . . I do not remember . . . .
I think she hurt me once, but . . . . That was very long ago.
I do not like to remember things any more.
I like one little band of winds that blow In the ash trees here:
For we are quite alone
Here amid the ash trees.
6
? CINO
ITALIAN CAMPAGNA 1309, THE OPEN-ROAD
AH ! I have sung women in three cities,
B'
And I will sing of the sun.
But it is all the
same;
Lips, words, and you snare them, Dreams, words, and they are as jewels, Strange spells of old deity,
Ravens, nights, allurement:
And they are not;
Having become the souls of song.
Eyes, dreams, lips, and the night goes. Being upon the road once more,
They are not.
Forgetful in their towers of our tuneing
Once for Wind-runeing They dream us-toward and
"
Sighing, say,
Passionate Cino, of the wrinkling eyes,
Gay Cino, of quick laughter,
Cino, of the dare, the jibe,
Frail Cino, strongest of his tribe
That tramp old ways beneath the sun-light, Would Cino of the Luth were here! "
Once, twice, a year Vaguely thus word they:
"Cino? " "Oh, eh, Cino Polnesi The singer is 't you mean? " "Ah yes, passed once our way,
A saucy fellow, but . . . .
7
Would Cino,
? Cino
(Oh, they are all one, these vagabonds), Peste ! 't is his own songs ?
Or some other's that he sings?
But you, My Lord, how with your city?
But you "My Lord," God's pity!
And all I knew were out, My Lord, you Were Lack-land Cino, e'en as I am,
Sinistro.
1 have sung women in three cities.
But it is all one.
I will sing of the sun.
. . . . eh? . . . . they mostly had grey eyes, But it is all one, I will sing of the sun.
"Tollo Phoibee, old tin pan, you Glory to Zeus' aegis-day,
Shield o' steel-blue, th' heaven o'er us Hath for boss thy lustre gay !
Tollo Phoibee, to our way-fare Make thy laugh our wander-lied; Bid thy 'fulgence bear away care. Cloud and rain-tears pass they fleet I
Seeking e'er the new-laid rast-way To the gardens of the sun
I have sung women in three cities But it is all one.
I will sing of the white birds
In the blue waters of heaven,
The clouds that are spray to its sea.
8
? NA AUDIART
"QUE BE-M VOLS MAL"
Any one who has read anything of the troubadours knows well the tale of Bertran of Born and My Lady Maent of Mon- taignac, and knows also the song he made when she would none
her love-lit glance, of Aelis her speech free-running, of the Vicomp- tess of Chales her throat and her two hands, at Roacoart of Anhes her hair golden as Iseult's ; and even in this fashion of Lady Audiart, " although she would that ill come unto him" he sought
and praised the lineaments of the torse. And all this to make ""
Una dompna soiseubuda a borrowed lady or, as the Italians
translated it,
" Una donna ideale. "
thou well dost wish me ill," Audiart, Audiart,
THOUGH
Where thy bodice laces start
As ivy fingers clutching through Its crevices,
Audiart, Audiart, Stately, tall and lovely tender
Who shall render,
Audiart, Audiart, Praises meet unto thy fashion?
Here a word kiss !
Pass I on Unto Lady "Miels-de-Ben,"
Having praised thy girdle's scope, How the stays ply back from it; I breathe no hope
That thou shouldst . . . .
Nay, no whit Bespeak thyself for anything.
Just a word in thy praise, girl, Just for the swirl
9
? Na Thy satins make upon the stair,
Audiart >
\
Cause never a flaw was there Where thy torse and limbs are met: Though thou hate me, read it set
1
In rose and gold.
Or when the minstrel, tale half told, Shall burst to lilting at the phrase
"Audiart, Audiart"
Bertrans, master of his lays, Bertrans of Aultaforte thy praise
Sets forth, and though thou hate me well, Yea, though thou wish me ill,
Audiart, Audiart Thy loveliness is here writ till,
Audiart,
2
Oh, till thou come again.
And being bent and wrinkled, in a form That hath no perfect limning, when the warm Youth dew is cold
Upon thy hands, and thy old soul,
Scorning a new, wry'd casement,
Churlish at seemed misplacement,
Finds the earth as bitter
As now seems it sweet,
Being so young and fair
As then only in dreams
Being then young and wry'd,
Broken of ancient pride,
Thou shalt then soften,
1 7. e. in illumed manuscript. IO
2 Reincarnate.
? Knowing I know not how Na
Audiart
Thou wert once she,
For whose fairness one forgave, Que be-m vols mal.
VILLONAUD FOR THIS YULE HTOWARDS the Noel that morte saison
-L (Christ make the shepherds' homage dear! ) Then when the grey wolves everychone Drink of the winds their chill small-beer And lap o' the snows food's gueredon,
Then maketh my heart his yule-tide cheer (Skoal ! with the dregs if the clear be gone ! ) Wincing the ghosts of yester-year.
Ask ye what ghosts I dream upon? (What of the magians' scented gear? )
The ghosts of dead loves everyone
That make the stark winds reek with fear
Lest love return with the foison sun And slay the memories that me cheer (Such as I drink to mine fashion) Wincing the ghosts of yester-year.
Where are the joys my heart had won? (Saturn and Mars to Zeus drawn near! ) Where are the lips mine lay upon,
1
1
Audiart, Audiart,
Audiart, Audiart
Signum Nativitatis* II
? Vittonaud Aye ! where are the glances feat and clear
J Yuie
That bade my heart his valour don?
I skoal to the eyes as grey-blown mere (Who knows whose was that paragon? )
Wincing the ghosts of yester-year.
Prince: ask me not what I have done, Nor what God hath that can me cheer, But ye ask first where the winds are gone Wincing the ghosts of yester-year.
A VILLONAUD, BALLAD OF THE GIBBET OR, THE SONG OF THE SIXTH COMPANION
SCENE: "En cest bourdel ou tenoms nostr estat. "
It being remembered that there were six of us with Master Villon, when that expecting presently to be hanged he writ a ballad whereof ye know :
"
Frtres humftins qui aprls nous vivez" NK ye a skoal for the gallows tree !
me, Who said us, "Till then" for the gallows tree!
Fat Pierre with the hook gauche-main,
Thomas Larron "Ear-the-less," Tybalde and that armouress
Who gave this poignard its premier stain Pinning the Guise that had been fain
To make him a mate of the "Haulte Noblesse" And bade her be out with ill address
As a fool that mocketh his drue's disdeign.
DRI Fr
an
cois and and thee and
Margot Drink we the comrades merrily
? Drink we a skoal for the gallows tree ! Francoi-s and Margot and thee and me,
A Vi%tton-
fjf
lad of the
Gibbet
T^
Drink we to Manenne Ydole,
That hell brenn not her o'er cruelly.
i
.
TVT TT-J i
Drink we the lusty robbers twain,
Black is the pitch o' their wedding dress, Lips shrunk back for the wind's caress
As lips shrink back when we feel the strain Of love that loveth in hell's disdeign
And sense the teeth through the lips that press 'Gainst our lips for the soul's distress
That striveth to ours across the pain.
Drink we skoal to the gallows tree!
Francois and Margot and thee and me,
For Jehan and Raoul de Vallerie
Whose frames have the night and its winds in fee
Maturin, Guillaume, Jacques d'Allmain, Culdou, lacking a coat to bless
One lean moiety of his nakedness,
That plundered St. Hubert back o' the fane: Aie ! the lean bare tree is widowed again For Michault le Borgne that would confess In "faith and troth" to a traitoress,
"Which of his brothers had he slain? "
But drink we skoal to the gallows tree ! Francois and Margot and thee and me:
1 Certain gibbeted corpses used to be coated with tar as a pre- servative ; thus one scarecrow served as warning for considerable time. See Hugo, " L'Homme qui Rit. "
13
1
? A Villon- These that we loved shall God love less
fadoftfie Gibbet
^nc* sm*te alwav at their feebleness?
Skoal ! 1 to the Gallows ! and then pray we: God damn his hell out speedily
And bring their souls to his High City.
MESMERISM
"And a cat 's in the water-butt. " ROBERT BROWNING.
YE, you 're a man that ! ye old mesmerizer !
Tyin' your meanin' in seventy swadelin's, One must of needs be a hang'd early riser
To catch you at worm turning. Holy Odd's bodykins !
"Cat 's i' the water-butt! " Thought 's in your
verse-barrel,
Tell us this thing rather, then we '11 believe you,
You, Master Bob Browning, spite your apparel Jump to your sense and give praise as we 'd lief do.
You wheeze as a head-cold long-tonsilled Calliope, But,God! whatasightyouha'goto'ourin'ards, Mad as a hatter but surely no Myope,
Broad as all ocean and leanin' mankin'ards.
Heart that was big as the bowels of Vesuvius, Words that were wing'd as her sparks in eruption^
Eagled and thundered as Jupiter Pluvius, Sound in your wind past all signs o' corruption.
14
? Here 's to you, Old Hippety-hop o' the accents, True to the Truth's sake and crafty dissector,
You grabbed at the gold sure; had no need to pack cents
Into your versicles.
Clear sight's elector !
Mesmer- ism
FAMAM LIBROSQUE CANO songs?
YOUR Oh
!
The little mothers
Will sing them in the twilight, And when the night
Shrinketh the kiss of the dawn That loves and kills,
What time the swallow fills
Her note, the little rabbit folk
That some call children,
Such as are up and wide
Will laugh your verses to each other, Pulling on their shoes for the day's business, Serious child business that the world Laughs at, and grows stale;
Such is the tale
Part of it of thy song-life. Mine?
A book is known by them that read Thatsame. Thypublicinmyscreed
Is listed. Well ! Some score years hence Behold mine audience,
As we had seen him yesterday.
15
? Famam
Scrawny, be-spectacled, out at heels,
Such an one as the wor d feels !
A sort of curse against its guzzling
And its age-lasting wallow for red greed
And yet, full speed
Though it should run for its own getting, Will turn aside to sneer at
'Cause he hath
No coin, no will to snatch the aftermath Of Mammon.
Such an one as women draw away from For the tobacco ashes scattered on his coat And sith his throat
Show razor's unfamiliarity And three days' beard:
Such an one picking a ragged Backless copy from the stall,
Too cheap for cataloguing, Loquitur,
"Ah-eh! the strange rare name .
Ah-eh ! He must be rare if even / have not And lost mid-page
Such age
As his pardons the habit,
He analyzes form and thought to see
How I 'scaped immortality.
16
. .
? TEMPORE SENECTUTIS OR we are old
And the earth passion dieth;
We have watched him die a thousand times, When he wanes an old wind crieth,
For we are old
And passion hath died for us a thousand times
But we grew never weary.
Memory faileth, as the lotus-loved chimes
Sink into fluttering of wind, But we grow never weary For we are old.
The strange night-wonder of your eyes Dies not, though passion flieth
Along the star fields of Arcturus And is no more unto our hands;
My lips are cold
And yet we twain are never weary,
And the strange night-wonder is upon us,
The leaves hold our wonder in their flutterings, The wind fills our mouths with strange words
For our wonder that grows not old.
'T is true that I am gay,
Quite gay, for I have her alone here And no man troubleth us.
Once when I was among the young men . . . .
And they said I was quite strong, among the young men.
Once there was a woman . . . .
. . . . but I forget . . . . she was . . . . . . . . I hope she will not come again.
. . . . I do not remember . . . .
I think she hurt me once, but . . . . That was very long ago.
I do not like to remember things any more.
I like one little band of winds that blow In the ash trees here:
For we are quite alone
Here amid the ash trees.
6
? CINO
ITALIAN CAMPAGNA 1309, THE OPEN-ROAD
AH ! I have sung women in three cities,
B'
And I will sing of the sun.
But it is all the
same;
Lips, words, and you snare them, Dreams, words, and they are as jewels, Strange spells of old deity,
Ravens, nights, allurement:
And they are not;
Having become the souls of song.
Eyes, dreams, lips, and the night goes. Being upon the road once more,
They are not.
Forgetful in their towers of our tuneing
Once for Wind-runeing They dream us-toward and
"
Sighing, say,
Passionate Cino, of the wrinkling eyes,
Gay Cino, of quick laughter,
Cino, of the dare, the jibe,
Frail Cino, strongest of his tribe
That tramp old ways beneath the sun-light, Would Cino of the Luth were here! "
Once, twice, a year Vaguely thus word they:
"Cino? " "Oh, eh, Cino Polnesi The singer is 't you mean? " "Ah yes, passed once our way,
A saucy fellow, but . . . .
7
Would Cino,
? Cino
(Oh, they are all one, these vagabonds), Peste ! 't is his own songs ?
Or some other's that he sings?
But you, My Lord, how with your city?
But you "My Lord," God's pity!
And all I knew were out, My Lord, you Were Lack-land Cino, e'en as I am,
Sinistro.
1 have sung women in three cities.
But it is all one.
I will sing of the sun.
. . . . eh? . . . . they mostly had grey eyes, But it is all one, I will sing of the sun.
"Tollo Phoibee, old tin pan, you Glory to Zeus' aegis-day,
Shield o' steel-blue, th' heaven o'er us Hath for boss thy lustre gay !
Tollo Phoibee, to our way-fare Make thy laugh our wander-lied; Bid thy 'fulgence bear away care. Cloud and rain-tears pass they fleet I
Seeking e'er the new-laid rast-way To the gardens of the sun
I have sung women in three cities But it is all one.
I will sing of the white birds
In the blue waters of heaven,
The clouds that are spray to its sea.
8
? NA AUDIART
"QUE BE-M VOLS MAL"
Any one who has read anything of the troubadours knows well the tale of Bertran of Born and My Lady Maent of Mon- taignac, and knows also the song he made when she would none
her love-lit glance, of Aelis her speech free-running, of the Vicomp- tess of Chales her throat and her two hands, at Roacoart of Anhes her hair golden as Iseult's ; and even in this fashion of Lady Audiart, " although she would that ill come unto him" he sought
and praised the lineaments of the torse. And all this to make ""
Una dompna soiseubuda a borrowed lady or, as the Italians
translated it,
" Una donna ideale. "
thou well dost wish me ill," Audiart, Audiart,
THOUGH
Where thy bodice laces start
As ivy fingers clutching through Its crevices,
Audiart, Audiart, Stately, tall and lovely tender
Who shall render,
Audiart, Audiart, Praises meet unto thy fashion?
Here a word kiss !
Pass I on Unto Lady "Miels-de-Ben,"
Having praised thy girdle's scope, How the stays ply back from it; I breathe no hope
That thou shouldst . . . .
Nay, no whit Bespeak thyself for anything.
Just a word in thy praise, girl, Just for the swirl
9
? Na Thy satins make upon the stair,
Audiart >
\
Cause never a flaw was there Where thy torse and limbs are met: Though thou hate me, read it set
1
In rose and gold.
Or when the minstrel, tale half told, Shall burst to lilting at the phrase
"Audiart, Audiart"
Bertrans, master of his lays, Bertrans of Aultaforte thy praise
Sets forth, and though thou hate me well, Yea, though thou wish me ill,
Audiart, Audiart Thy loveliness is here writ till,
Audiart,
2
Oh, till thou come again.
And being bent and wrinkled, in a form That hath no perfect limning, when the warm Youth dew is cold
Upon thy hands, and thy old soul,
Scorning a new, wry'd casement,
Churlish at seemed misplacement,
Finds the earth as bitter
As now seems it sweet,
Being so young and fair
As then only in dreams
Being then young and wry'd,
Broken of ancient pride,
Thou shalt then soften,
1 7. e. in illumed manuscript. IO
2 Reincarnate.
? Knowing I know not how Na
Audiart
Thou wert once she,
For whose fairness one forgave, Que be-m vols mal.
VILLONAUD FOR THIS YULE HTOWARDS the Noel that morte saison
-L (Christ make the shepherds' homage dear! ) Then when the grey wolves everychone Drink of the winds their chill small-beer And lap o' the snows food's gueredon,
Then maketh my heart his yule-tide cheer (Skoal ! with the dregs if the clear be gone ! ) Wincing the ghosts of yester-year.
Ask ye what ghosts I dream upon? (What of the magians' scented gear? )
The ghosts of dead loves everyone
That make the stark winds reek with fear
Lest love return with the foison sun And slay the memories that me cheer (Such as I drink to mine fashion) Wincing the ghosts of yester-year.
Where are the joys my heart had won? (Saturn and Mars to Zeus drawn near! ) Where are the lips mine lay upon,
1
1
Audiart, Audiart,
Audiart, Audiart
Signum Nativitatis* II
? Vittonaud Aye ! where are the glances feat and clear
J Yuie
That bade my heart his valour don?
I skoal to the eyes as grey-blown mere (Who knows whose was that paragon? )
Wincing the ghosts of yester-year.
Prince: ask me not what I have done, Nor what God hath that can me cheer, But ye ask first where the winds are gone Wincing the ghosts of yester-year.
A VILLONAUD, BALLAD OF THE GIBBET OR, THE SONG OF THE SIXTH COMPANION
SCENE: "En cest bourdel ou tenoms nostr estat. "
It being remembered that there were six of us with Master Villon, when that expecting presently to be hanged he writ a ballad whereof ye know :
"
Frtres humftins qui aprls nous vivez" NK ye a skoal for the gallows tree !
me, Who said us, "Till then" for the gallows tree!
Fat Pierre with the hook gauche-main,
Thomas Larron "Ear-the-less," Tybalde and that armouress
Who gave this poignard its premier stain Pinning the Guise that had been fain
To make him a mate of the "Haulte Noblesse" And bade her be out with ill address
As a fool that mocketh his drue's disdeign.
DRI Fr
an
cois and and thee and
Margot Drink we the comrades merrily
? Drink we a skoal for the gallows tree ! Francoi-s and Margot and thee and me,
A Vi%tton-
fjf
lad of the
Gibbet
T^
Drink we to Manenne Ydole,
That hell brenn not her o'er cruelly.
i
.
TVT TT-J i
Drink we the lusty robbers twain,
Black is the pitch o' their wedding dress, Lips shrunk back for the wind's caress
As lips shrink back when we feel the strain Of love that loveth in hell's disdeign
And sense the teeth through the lips that press 'Gainst our lips for the soul's distress
That striveth to ours across the pain.
Drink we skoal to the gallows tree!
Francois and Margot and thee and me,
For Jehan and Raoul de Vallerie
Whose frames have the night and its winds in fee
Maturin, Guillaume, Jacques d'Allmain, Culdou, lacking a coat to bless
One lean moiety of his nakedness,
That plundered St. Hubert back o' the fane: Aie ! the lean bare tree is widowed again For Michault le Borgne that would confess In "faith and troth" to a traitoress,
"Which of his brothers had he slain? "
But drink we skoal to the gallows tree ! Francois and Margot and thee and me:
1 Certain gibbeted corpses used to be coated with tar as a pre- servative ; thus one scarecrow served as warning for considerable time. See Hugo, " L'Homme qui Rit. "
13
1
? A Villon- These that we loved shall God love less
fadoftfie Gibbet
^nc* sm*te alwav at their feebleness?
Skoal ! 1 to the Gallows ! and then pray we: God damn his hell out speedily
And bring their souls to his High City.
MESMERISM
"And a cat 's in the water-butt. " ROBERT BROWNING.
YE, you 're a man that ! ye old mesmerizer !
Tyin' your meanin' in seventy swadelin's, One must of needs be a hang'd early riser
To catch you at worm turning. Holy Odd's bodykins !
"Cat 's i' the water-butt! " Thought 's in your
verse-barrel,
Tell us this thing rather, then we '11 believe you,
You, Master Bob Browning, spite your apparel Jump to your sense and give praise as we 'd lief do.
You wheeze as a head-cold long-tonsilled Calliope, But,God! whatasightyouha'goto'ourin'ards, Mad as a hatter but surely no Myope,
Broad as all ocean and leanin' mankin'ards.
Heart that was big as the bowels of Vesuvius, Words that were wing'd as her sparks in eruption^
Eagled and thundered as Jupiter Pluvius, Sound in your wind past all signs o' corruption.
14
? Here 's to you, Old Hippety-hop o' the accents, True to the Truth's sake and crafty dissector,
You grabbed at the gold sure; had no need to pack cents
Into your versicles.
Clear sight's elector !
Mesmer- ism
FAMAM LIBROSQUE CANO songs?
YOUR Oh
!
The little mothers
Will sing them in the twilight, And when the night
Shrinketh the kiss of the dawn That loves and kills,
What time the swallow fills
Her note, the little rabbit folk
That some call children,
Such as are up and wide
Will laugh your verses to each other, Pulling on their shoes for the day's business, Serious child business that the world Laughs at, and grows stale;
Such is the tale
Part of it of thy song-life. Mine?
A book is known by them that read Thatsame. Thypublicinmyscreed
Is listed. Well ! Some score years hence Behold mine audience,
As we had seen him yesterday.
15
? Famam
Scrawny, be-spectacled, out at heels,
Such an one as the wor d feels !
A sort of curse against its guzzling
And its age-lasting wallow for red greed
And yet, full speed
Though it should run for its own getting, Will turn aside to sneer at
'Cause he hath
No coin, no will to snatch the aftermath Of Mammon.
Such an one as women draw away from For the tobacco ashes scattered on his coat And sith his throat
Show razor's unfamiliarity And three days' beard:
Such an one picking a ragged Backless copy from the stall,
Too cheap for cataloguing, Loquitur,
"Ah-eh! the strange rare name .
Ah-eh ! He must be rare if even / have not And lost mid-page
Such age
As his pardons the habit,
He analyzes form and thought to see
How I 'scaped immortality.
16
. .
? TEMPORE SENECTUTIS OR we are old
And the earth passion dieth;
We have watched him die a thousand times, When he wanes an old wind crieth,
For we are old
And passion hath died for us a thousand times
But we grew never weary.
Memory faileth, as the lotus-loved chimes
Sink into fluttering of wind, But we grow never weary For we are old.
The strange night-wonder of your eyes Dies not, though passion flieth
Along the star fields of Arcturus And is no more unto our hands;
My lips are cold
And yet we twain are never weary,
And the strange night-wonder is upon us,
The leaves hold our wonder in their flutterings, The wind fills our mouths with strange words
For our wonder that grows not old.
The moth-hour of our day is upon us Holding the dawn;
There is strange Night-wonder in our eyes Because the Moth-Hour leadeth the dawn
As a maiden, holding her fingers,
The rosy, slender fingers of the dawn. "
17
? InTem- Hesaith:"Redspearsborethewarriordawn Of old
**: Strange! Love, hast thou forgotten
The red spears of the dawn, The pennants of the morning? "
She saith: "Nay, I remember, but now Cometh the Dawn, and the Moth-Hour
Together with him ; softly For we are old. "
CAMARADERIE
"Etuttogite tofossealacantpagniadimolti,quantaaliavista"
I feel thy cheek against my face
SOMETIMES soft as is the South's first breath Close-pressing,
That all the subtle earth-things summoneth To spring in wood-land and in meadow space.
Yea sometimes in a bustling man-filled place Meseemeth some-wise thy hair wandereth Across mine eyes, as mist that halloweth The air awhile and giveth all things grace.
Or on still evenings when the rain falls close There comes a tremor in the drops, and fast
My pulses run, knowing thy thought hath passed That beareth thee as doth the wind a rose.
18
nectutis. OA
,
T ,
? FOR E. McC.
THAT WAS MY COUNTER-BLADE UNDER LEONARDO TERRONE, MASTER OF FENCE
i~* ONE while your tastes were keen to you, \J Gone where the grey winds call to you,
By that high fencer, even Death,
Struck of the blade that no man parrieth;
Such is your fence, one saith, One that hath known you.
Drew you your sword most gallantly, Made you your pass most valiantly
'Gainst that grey fencer, even Death.
Gone as a gust of breath
Faith ! no man tarrieth,
"Se il cor ti manca" but it failed thee not!
"Non tifidar" it is the sword that speaks
1
Thou trusted'st in thyself and met the blade Thout mask or gauntlet, and art laid
As memorable broken blades that be
Kept as bold trophies of old pageantry.
As old Toledos past their days of war
Are kept mnemonic of the strokes they bore,
So art thou with us, being good to keep
In our heart's sword-rack, though thy sword-arm
sleep.
ENVOI
Struck of the blade that no man parrieth,
Pierced of the point that toucheth lastly all,
'Gainst that grey fencer, even Death,
Behold the shield ! He shall not take thee all.
1 Sword-rune, " If thy heart fail thee trust not in me. " 19
"In me. "
? BALLAD FOR GLOOM
God, our God, is a gallant foe FOTRhat playeth behind the veil.
I have loved my God as a child at heart That seeketh deep bosoms for rest,
I have loved my God as maid to man, But lo, this thing is best:
To love your God as a gallant foe
that plays behind the veil,
To meet your God as the night winds meet beyond Arcturus' pale.
I have played with God for a woman,
I have staked with my God for truth,
I have lost to my God as a man, clear eyed;
His dice be not of ruth.
For I am made as a naked blade, But hear ye this thing in sooth :
Who loseth to God as man to man Shall win at the turn of the game.
I have drawn my blade where the lightnings meet But the ending is the same:
Who loseth to God as the sword blades lose
Shall win at the end of the game.
For God, our God, is a gallant foe
that playeth behind the veil,
Whom God deigns not to overthrow
hath need of triple mail.
20
? AT THE HEART O' ME A. D.
