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VIII
If the rose-petals which have fallen upon my eyes And if the perfect faces which I see at times
When my eyes are closed
Faces fragile, pale, yet flushed a little, like petals of
roses :
If these things have confused my memories of her So that I could not draw her face
Even if I had skill and the colours,
Yet because her face is so like these things
They but draw me nearer unto her in my thought And thoughts of her come upon my mind gently, As dew upon the petals of roses.
IX
He speaks to the rain.
O pearls that hang on your little silver chains,
The innumerable voices that are whispering Among you as you are drawn aside by the wind, Have brought to my mind the soft and eager speech Of one who hath great loveliness,
Which is subtle as the beauty of the rains That hang low in the moonshine and bring
The May softly among us, and unbind
The streams and the crimson and white flowers and
reach
Deep down into the secret places.
30
? X
The glamour of the soul hath come upon me,
And as the twilight comes upon the roses,
Walking silently among them, So have the thoughts of my heart
Gone out slowly in the twilight Toward my beloved,
Toward the crimson rose, the fairest.
? Aux Belles de Londres
AM aweary with the utter and beautiful weariness I And with the ultimate wisdom and with things
terrene,
I am aweary with your smiles and your laughter, And the sun and the winds again
Reclaim their booty and the heart o' me.
? Francesca
came in out of the night
YOAUnd there were flowers in your hands, Now you will come out of a confusion of people, Out of a turmoil of speech about you.
I who have seen you amid the primal things Was angry when they spoke your name
In ordinary places.
I would that the cool waves might flow over my
mind,
And that the world should dry as a dead leaf, Or as a dandelion seed-pod and be swept away,
So that I might find you again, Alone.
33
? Greek Epigram
and night are never weary, DAYNor yet is God of creating
For day and night their torch-bearers The aube and the crepuscule.
So, when I weary of praising the dawn and the sun
set,
Let me be no more counted among the immortals ; But number me amid the wearying ones, Letmebeamanastheherd,
And as the slave that is given in barter.
34
? Christophori Columbi Tumulus From the Latin of Hipolytus Capilupus, Early Cent. XVI.
glory of Italy, Columbus thou sure
GENOAN, light,
Alas the urn takes even thee so soon out-blown. Its little space
Doth hold thee, whom Oceanus had not the might Within his folds to hold, altho' his broad embrace Doth hold all lands.
Bark-borne beyond his bound'ries unto Hind thou wast Where scarce Fame's volant self the way had cast.
? Plotinus
one that would draw through the node of things, AS Back sweeping to the vortex of the cone,
Cloistered about with memories, alone In chaos, while the waiting silence sings :
Obliviate of cycles' wanderings
I was an atom on creation's throne
And knew all nothing my unconquered own. God! Should I be the hand upon the strings? !
But I was lonely as a lonely child.
I cried amid the void and heard no cry, And then for utter loneliness, made I
New thoughts as crescent images of me. And with them was my essence reconciled While fear went forth from mine eternity.
? On His Own Face in a Glass
O STRANGE face there in the glass !
O ribald O
company, saintly host,
O sorrow-swept my fool, What answer? O ye myriad That strive and play and pass,
Jest, challenge, counterlie? I? I? I?
And ye?
37
? Histrion
NO man hath dared to write this thing as yet,
And great
I
yet know, how that the souls of all men
At times pass through us,
And we are melted into them, and are not Save reflexions of their souls.
Thus am I Dante for a space and am One Fran9ois Villon, ballad-lord and thief Or am such holy ones I may not write, Lest blasphemy be writ against my name ; This for an instant and the flame is gone.
'Tis as in midmost us there glows a sphere
"" Translucent, molten gold, that is the I
And into this some form projects itself: Christus, or John, or eke the Florentine ; And as the clear space is not if a form's Imposed thereon,
So cease we from all being for the time, And these, the Masters of the Soul, live on.
? The Eyes
Master, for we be a-weary, weary RESAnTd would feel the fingers of the wind
Upon these lids that lie over us Sodden and lead-heavy.
Rest brother, for lo ! the dawn is without !
The yellow flame paleth And the wax runs low.
Free us, for without be goodly colours, Green of the wood-moss and flower colours, And coolness beneath the trees.
Free us, for we perish
In this ever-flowing monotony Of ugly print marks, black Upon white parchment.
Free us, for there is one
Whose smile more availeth
Than all the age-old knowledge of thy books : And we would look thereon.
39
? Defiance
YE blood-red spears-men of the dawn's array
drive
That my dusk-clad knights of dream away,
Hold ! For I will not yield.
My moated soul shall dream in your despite
A refuge for the vanquished hosts of night That can not yield.
? Song
thou thy dream
LOVEbase love
All scorning,
Love thou the wind
And here take warning
That dreams alone can truly be, For 'tis in dream I come to thee.
? Nel Biancheggiar
"D LUE-GREY, and white, and white-of-rose, LJ The flowers of the West's fore-dawn unclose.
I feel the dusky softness whirr Of colour, as upon a dulcimer
" Her "
As when the living music swoons
But dies not quite, because for love of us
knowing our state
How that 'tis troublous-
It wills not die to leave us desolate.
dreaming fingers lay
between the
tunes,
? Nils Lykke infinite memories
BEATUhTatIFarUeL, at a-plucking
my heart,
Why will you be ever calling- and a-calling, And a-murmuring in the dark there?
And a-reaching out your long hands Between me and my beloved?
And why will you be ever a-casting The black shadow of your beauty
On the white face of my beloved
And a-glinting in the pools of her eyes?
43
? A Song of the Virgin Mother In the play " Los Pastores de Belen. " From the Spanish of Lope de Vega.
ASO holy angels
Sith sleepeth my child here Still ye the branches.
O Bethlehem palm-trees That move to the anger Of winds in their fury, Tempestuous voices, Make ye no clamour, Run ye less swiftly,
Sith sleepeth the child here Still ye your branches.
He the divine child
Is here a-wearied
Of weeping the earth-pain, Here for his rest would he Cease from his mourning, Only a little while,
Sith sleepeth this child here Stay ye the branches.
44
ye go through these palm-trees
;
? Cold be the fierce winds, Treacherous round him. Ye see that I have not Wherewith to guard him, O angels, divine ones
That pass us a-flying,
Sith sleepeth my child here Stay ye the branches.
45
? Planh for the Young English
King
That is, Prince Henry Plantagenet^ elder brother to Richard " Coeur de Lion. "
From the Provencal of Bertrans de Born " Si tuit li dol elh plor elh marrimen. "
all the grief and woe and bitterness, IFAll dolour, ill and every evil chance
That ever came upon this grieving world Were set together they would seem but light
Against the death of the young English King. Worth lieth riven and Youth dolorous,
The world o'ershadowed, soiled and overcast, Void of all joy and full of ire and sadness.
Grieving and sad and full of bitterness
Are left in teen the liegemen courteous,
The joglars supple and the troubadours.
O'er much hath ta'en Sir Death that deadly warrior In taking from them the young English King, Who made the freest hand seem covetous.
'Las ! Never was nor will be in this world
The balance for this loss in ire and sadness !
46
? O skilful Death and full of bitterness,
Well mayst thou boast that thou the best chevalier That any folk e'er had, hast from us taken ;
Sith nothing is that unto worth pertaineth
But had its life in the young English King,
And better were it, should God grant his pleasure That he should live than many a living dastard That doth but wound the good with ire and sadness.
From this faint world, how full of bitterness
Love takes his way and holds his joy deceitful,
Sith no thing is but turneth unto anguish
And each to-day 'vails less than yestere'en,
Let each man visage this young English King
That was most valiant mid all worthiest men !
Gone is his body fine and amorous,
Whence have we grief, discord and deepest sadness.
Him, whom it pleased for our great bitterness To come to earth to draw us from misventure, Who drank of death for our salvacioun,
Him do we pray as to a Lord most righteous And humble eke, that the young English King He please to pardon, as true pardon is,
And bid go in with honoured companions
There where there is no grief, nor shall be sadness.
47
? Alba Innominata From the Provenqal.
a garden where the whitethorn spreads her IN leaves
My lady hath her love lain close beside her,
Till the warder cries the dawn Ah dawn that
!
grieves
Ah God ! Ah God ! That dawn should come so soon !
" Please God that night, dear night should never
cease,
Nor that my love should parted be from me,
*Dawn' Ahdawnthatslayethpeace! Ah God ! Ah God ! That dawn should come so soon !
" Fair friend and sweet, thy lips ! Our lips again! Lo, in the meadow there the birds give song !
Ours be the love and Jealousy's the pain !
Ah God ! Ah God ! That dawn should come so soon !
" Sweet friend and fair take we our joy again Down in the garden, where the birds are loud,
Till the warder's reed astrain
Cry God ! Ah God ! That dawn should come so soon!
Norwatch
cry
? " Of that sweet wind that comes from Far-Away
Have I drunk deep of my Beloved's breath,
Yea! of my Love's that is so dear and gay.
Ah God! Ah God! That dawn should come so
' soon!
Envoi.
Fair is this damsel and right courteous,
And many watch her beauty's gracious way.
Her heart toward love is no wise traitorous.
Ah God ! Ah God ! That dawns should come so soon !
49
? Planh
It is of the -white thoughts that he saw in the Forest.
WHIOTE
Poppy, heavy with dreams,
W
who art wiser than
hite
Poppy,
Though I am hungry for their lips
love,
When I see them a-hiding
And a-passing out and in through the shadows
There in the pine wood it is,
And they are white, White Poppy,
They are white like the clouds in the forest of the sky Ere the stars arise to their hunting.
White Poppy, who art wiser than love,
1 am come for peace, yea from the hunting Am I come to thee for peace.
Out of a new sorrow it is,
That my hunting hath brought me.
White Poppy, heavy with dreams,
Though I am hungry for their lips When I see them a-hiding
And a-passing out and in through the shadows And it is white they are
But if one should look at me with the old hunger in her eyes,
How will I be answering her eyes? 50
? For I have followed the white folk of the forest.
Aye ! It's a long hunting
And it's a deep hunger I have when I see them
a-gliding
And a-flickering there, where the trees stand apart.
But oh, it is sorrow and sorrow When love dies-down in the heart.
5'
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Personae
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SOME EARLY REVIEWS
TheObserversays: "Itissomething,afterall,intangibleand indescribablethatmakestherealpoetry. Criticismandpraisealike give no idea of it. Everyone who pretends to know it when he
" sees it, should read and keep this little book.
:
TheBookman "Nonewbookofpoemsforyearspasthashad
such a freshness of inspiration, such a strongly individual note, or been more alive with undoubtable promise. "
"
ning to end, and in every way, his own, and in a world of his own.
For brusque intensity of effect we can hardly compare them to any other work. It is the old miracle that cannot be defined, nothing more than a subtle entanglement of words, so that they rise out of their graves and sing. "
From a 3^ page detailed critique, by Mr. Edward Thomas, in The English Review-. "He has . . . hardly any of the superficial good qualities of modern versifiers ; . . . He has not the current melancholy or resignation or unwillingness to live ; nor the kind of feeling for nature that runs to minute description and decorative metaphor. Hecannotbeusefullycomparedwithanylivingwriters; . . . full of personality and with such power to express it, that from the first to the last lines of most of his poems he holds us steadily
in his own pure, grave, passionate world. . . . The beauty of it ('In praise of Ysolt') is the beauty of passion, sincerity and in tensity, not of beautiful words and images and suggestions ; , . . the thought dominates the words and is greater than they are. Here (' Idyl for Glaucus') the effect is full of human passion and natural magic, without any of the phrases which a reader of modern versewouldexpectinthetreatmentofsuchasubject. Thisadmir able poet. . . .
The Oxford Magazine: ''This is a most exciting book of poems. "
The Daily Chronicle :
All his poems are like this, from begin
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The Morning Post; "Mr. Ezra Pound . . . immediately com pels our admiration by his fearlessness and lack of self-conscious ness. "
"
This book has about it the breath of the open air, . . . physically and intellectually the verse seems to reproducethepersonalitywithabrieffulnessandadequacy. Itis only in flexible, lithe measures, such as those which Coventry Patmore chose in his ' Unknown Eros,' and Mr. Pound chooses here that a fully suitable form for the recital of spiritual experience istobefound. Mr. Poundhasatrueandinvariablefeelingforthe
measures he employs . . . this wonderful little book. . . . "
TheDailyTelegraph:"Apoetwithindividuality. . . . Thread of true beauty. . . . lifts it out of the ruck of those many volumes, the writers of which toe the line of poetic convention, and please for no more than a single reading. "
" He has succeeded where all others have failed, in evolving a blend of the imagery of the unfettered west, the vocabulary of Wardour Street, and the sinister abandon of
The Isis (Oxford) :
Mr. Punch, concerning a certain Mr. Ezekiel Ton :
newest poet going, whatever other advertisements may_ say ; announced as "the most remarkable thing in poetry since Robert
Browning," says
:
Borgaic Italy. "
"
At first the whole thing may seem to be mere madness and rhetoric, a vain exhibition of force and passion without beauty. But, as we read on, these curious metres of his seem to have a law and order ot their own ; the brute force of Mr.
Pound's imagination seems to impart some
Mr. Scott-James, in The Daily News :
of infectious to his words. . . . With Mr. Pound beauty
quality
there is no eking out of thin sentiment with a melody or a song.
He writes out of an exuberance of incontinently struggling ideas and passionate convictions. . . . He plunges straight into the heart of his theme, and suggests virility in action combined with fierce ness, eagerness, and tenderness. . . . he has individuality, passion, force, and an acquaintance with things that are profoundly mov ing. " Mr. Scott-James begins his half-column review of Mr. Pound's book with a remark that he would "Like much more space in which to discuss his work," and also notes a certain use of spondee and dactyl which "Comes in strangely and, as we first read it, with the appearance of discord, but afterwards seems to gain a curious and distinctive vigour. "
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