The Project Gutenberg eBook ofExultations

The Project Gutenberg eBook ofExultationsThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: ExultationsAuthor: Ezra PoundRelease date: July 10, 2012 [eBook #40200]Most recently updated: October 23, 2024Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Marc D'Hooghe (Images generously made available by the Internet Archive.)*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK EXULTATIONS ***

This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.

Title: ExultationsAuthor: Ezra PoundRelease date: July 10, 2012 [eBook #40200]Most recently updated: October 23, 2024Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Marc D'Hooghe (Images generously made available by the Internet Archive.)

Title: Exultations

Author: Ezra Pound

Release date: July 10, 2012 [eBook #40200]Most recently updated: October 23, 2024

Language: English

Credits: Produced by Marc D'Hooghe (Images generously made available by the Internet Archive.)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK EXULTATIONS ***

I am an eternal spirit and the things Imake are but ephemera, yet I endure:Yea, and the little earth crumbles beneathour feet and we endure.

I have to thank the Editors of theEnglish Reviewand theEvening StandardandSt. James's Gazettefor permission to include in this volume certain poems which originally appeared in those papers.

GUIDO INVITES YOU THUSNIGHT LITANYSANDALPHONSESTINA: ALTAFORTEPIERE VIDAL OLDBALLAD OF THE GOODLY FEREHYMN III FROM THE LATIN OF FLAMINIUSSESTINA FOR YSOLTPORTRAIT (FROM "LA MÈRE INCONNUE")FAIR HELENALAUDANTES DECEMAUX BELLES DE LONDRESFRANCESCAGREEK EPIGRAMCOLUMBUS' EPITAPHPLOTINUSON HIS OWN FACE IN A GLASSHISTRIONTHE EYESDEFIANCESONGNEL BIANCHEGGIARNILS LYKKEA SONG OF THE VIRGIN MOTHERPLANH FOR THE YOUNG ENGLISH KINGALBA INNOMINATAPLANH

Guido invites you thus[1]"Lappo I leave behind and Dante too,Lo, I would sail the seas with thee alone!Talk me no love talk, no bought-cheap fiddl'ry,Mine is the ship and thine the merchandise,All the blind earth knows not th' empriseWhereto thou calledst and whereto I call.Lo, I have seen thee bound about with dreams,Lo, I have known thy heart and its desire;Life, all of it, my sea, and all men's streamsAre fused in it as flames of an altar fire!Lo, thou hast voyaged not! The ship is mine."

[1]The reference is to Dante's sonnet "Guido vorrei...."

Night LitanyO Dieu, purifiez nos cœurs!purifiez nos cœurs!Yea the lines hast thou laid unto mein pleasant places,And the beauty of this thy Venicehast thou shown unto meUntil is its loveliness become unto mea thing of tears.O God, what great kindnesshave we done in times pastand forgotten it,That thou givest this wonder unto us,O God of waters?O God of the nightWhat great sorrowCometh unto us,That thou thus repayest usBefore the time of its coming?O God of silence,Purifiez nos cœurs,Purifiez nos cœurs,For we have seenThe glory of the shadow of thelikeness of thine handmaid,Yea, the glory of the shadowof thy Beauty hath walkedUpon the shadow of the watersIn this thy Venice.And before the holinessOf the shadow of thy handmaidHave I hidden mine eyes,O God of waters.O God of silence,Purifiez nos cœurs,Purifiez nos cœurs,O God of waters,make clean our hearts within usAnd our lips to show forth thy praise,For I have seen theShadow of this thy VeniceFloating upon the waters,And thy starsHave seen this thing out of their far coursesHave they seen this thing,O God of waters,Even as are thy starsSilent unto us in their far-coursing,Even so is mine heartbecome silent within me.Purifiez nos cœursO God of the silence,Purifiez nos cœursO God of waters.SandalphonThe angel of prayer according to the Talmud stands unmovedamong the angels of wind and fire, who die as their one song isfinished, also as he gathers the prayers they turn to flowers in hishands.And these about me die,Because the pain of the infinite singingSlayeth them.Ye that have sung of the pain of the earth-horde'sage-long crusading,Ye know somewhat the strain,the sad-sweet wonder-pain of such singing.And therefore ye know after what fashionThis singing hath power destroying.Yea, these about me, bearing such song in homageUnto the Mover of Circles,Die for the might of their praising,And the autumn of their marcescent wingsMaketh ever new loam for my forest;And these grey ash trees hold within themAll the secrets of whatso thingsThey dreamed before their praises,And in this grove my flowers,Fruit of prayerful powers,Have first their thought of lifeAnd then their being.Ye marvel that I die not!forsitan!Thinking me kin with such as may not weep,Thinking me part of them that die for praising—yea, tho' it be praising,past the power of man's mortality todream or name its phases,—yea, tho' it chant and paeanpast the might of earth-dweltsoul to think on,—yea, tho' it be praisingas these the winged ones die of.Ye think me one insensateelse die I alsoSith these about me die,And if I, watchingEver the multiplex jewel, of beryl and jasper and sapphireMake of these prayers of earth ever new flowers;Marvel and wonder!Marvel and wonder even as I,Giving to prayer new languageAnd causing the works to speakOf the earth-horde's age-lasting longing,Even as I marvel and wonder, and know not,Yet keep my watch in the ash wood.Sestina: AltaforteLOQUITUR:EnBertrans de Born.Dante Alighieri put this man in hell for that he was a stirrer-upof strife.Eccovi!Judge ye!Have I dug him up again?The scene is at his castle, Altaforte. "Papiols" is his jongleur."The Leopard," thedeviceof Richard (Cœur de Lion).IDamn it all! all this our South stinks peace.You whoreson dog, Papiols, come! Let's to music!I have no life save when the swords clash.But ah! when I see the standards gold, vair, purple, opposingAnd the broad fields beneath them turn crimson,Then howl I my heart nigh mad with rejoicing.IIIn hot summer have I great rejoicingWhen the tempests kill the earth's foul peace,And the light'nings from black heav'n flash crimson,And the fierce thunders roar me their musicAnd the winds shriek through the clouds mad, opposing,And through all the riven skies God's swords clash.IIIHell grant soon we hear again the swords clash!And the shrill neighs of destriers in battle rejoicing,Spiked breast to spiked breast opposing!Better one hour's stour than a year's peaceWith fat boards, bawds, wine and frail music!Bah! there's no wine like the blood's crimson!IVAnd I love to see the sun rise blood-crimson.And I watch his spears through the dark clashAnd it fills all my heart with rejoicingAnd pries wide my mouth with fast musicWhen I see him so scorn and defy peace,His lone might 'gainst all darkness opposing.VThe man who fears war and squats opposingMy words for stour, hath no blood of crimsonBut is fit only to rot in womanish peaceFar from where worth's won and the swords clashFor the death of such sluts I go rejoicing;Yea, I fill all the air with my music.VIPapiols, Papiols, to the music!There's no sound like to swords swords opposing,No cry like the battle's rejoicingWhen our elbows and swords drip the crimsonAnd our charges 'gainst "The Leopard's" rush clash.May God damn for ever all who cry "Peace!"VIIAnd let the music of the swords make them crimson!Hell grant soon we hear again the swords clash!Hell blot black for alway the thought "Peace"!Piere Vidal OldIt is of Piere Vidal, the fool par excellence of all Provence, ofwhom the tale tells how he ran mad, as a wolf, because of his lovefor Loba of Penautier, and how men hunted him with dogs throughthe mountains of Cabaret and brought him for dead to the dwellingof this Loba (she-wolf) of Penautier, and how she and her Lordhad him healed and made welcome, and he stayed some time atthat court. He speaks:When I but think upon the great dead daysAnd turn my mind upon that splendid madness,Lo! I do curse my strengthAnd blame the sun his gladness;For that the one is deadAnd the red sun mocks my sadness.Behold me, Vidal, that was fool of fools!Swift as the king wolf was I and as strongWhen tall stags fled me through the alder brakes,And every jongleur knew me in his song,And the hounds fled and the deer fledAnd none fled over long.Even the grey pack knew me and knew fear.God! how the swiftest hind's blood spurted hotOver the sharpened teeth and purpling lips!Hot was that hind's blood yet it scorched me notAs did first scorn, then lips of the Penautier!Aye ye are fools, if ye think time can blotFrom Piere Vidal's remembrance that blue night,God! but the purple of the sky was deep!Clear, deep, translucent, so the stars me seemedSet deep in crystal; and because my sleep—Rare visitor—came not,—the Saints I guerdonFor that restlessness—Piere set to keepOne more fool's vigil with the hollyhocks.Swift came the Loba, as a branch that's caught,Tom, green and silent in the swollen Rhone,Green was her mantle, close, and wroughtOf some thin silk stuff that's scarce stuff at all,But like a mist wherethrough her white form fought,And conquered! Ah God! conquered!Silent my mate came as the night was still.Speech? Words? Faugh! Who talks of words and love?!Hot is such love and silent,Silent as fate is, and as strong untilIt faints in taking and in giving all.Stark, keen, triumphant, till it plays at death.God! she was white then, splendid as some tombHigh wrought of marble, and the panting breathCeased utterly. Well, then I waited, drew,Half-sheathed, then naked from its saffron sheathDrew full this dagger that doth tremble here.Just then she woke and mocked the less keen blade.Ah God, the Loba! and my only mate!Was there such flesh made ever and unmade!God curse the years that turn such women grey!Behold here Vidal, that was hunted, flayed,Shamed and yet bowed not and that won at last.And yet I curse the sun for his red gladness,I that have known strath, garth, brake, dale,And every run-way of the wood through that great madness,Behold me shrivelled as an old oak's trunkAnd made men's mock'ry in my rotten sadness!No man hath heard the glory of my days:No man hath dared and won his dare as I:One night, one body and one welding flame!What do ye own, ye niggards! that can buySuch glory of the earth? Or who will winSuch battle-guerdon with his "prowesse high"?O Age gone lax! O stunted followers,That mask at passions and desire desires,Behold me shrivelled, and your mock of mocks;And yet I mock you by the mighty firesThat burnt me to this ash.* * * * * * *Ah! Cabaret! Ah Cabaret, thy hills again!* * * * * * *Take your hands off me!... [Sniffing the air.Ha! this scent is hot!Ballad of the Goodly Fere[1]Simon Zelotes speaketh it somewhile after the Crucifixion.Ha' we lost the goodliest fere o' allFor the priests and the gallows tree?Aye lover he was of brawny men,O' ships and the open sea.When they came wi' a host to take Our ManHis smile was good to see,"First let these go!" quo' our Goodly Fere,"Or I'll see ye damned," says he.Aye he sent us out through the crossed high spearsAnd the scorn of his laugh rang free,"Why took ye not me when I walked aboutAlone in the town?" says he.Oh we drank his "Hale" in the good red wineWhen we last made company,No capon priest was the Goodly FereBut a man o' men was he.I ha' seen him drive a hundred menWi' a bundle o' cords swung free,That they took the high and holy houseFor their pawn and treasury.They'll no' get him a' in a book I thinkThough they write it cunningly;No mouse of the scrolls was the Goodly FereBut aye loved the open sea.If they think they ha' snared our Goodly FereThey are fools to the last degree."I'll go to the feast," quo' our Goodly Fere,"Though I go to the gallows tree.""Ye ha' seen me heal the lame and blind,And wake the dead," says he,"Ye shall see one thing to master all:'Tis how a brave man dies on the tree."A son of God was the Goodly FereThat bade us his brothers be.I ha' seen him cow a thousand men.I have seen him upon the tree.He cried no cry when they drave the nailsAnd the blood gushed hot and free,The hounds of the crimson sky gave tongueBut never a cry cried he.I ha' seen him cow a thousand menOn the hills o' Galilee,They whined as he walked out calm between,Wi' his eyes like the grey o' the sea.Like the sea that brooks no voyagingWith the winds unleashed and free,Like the sea that he cowed at GenseretWi' twey words spoke' suddently.A master of men was the Goodly Fere,A mate of the wind and sea,If they think they ha' slain our Goodly FereThey are fools eternally.I ha' seen him eat o' the honey-combSin' they nailed him to the tree.

[1]Fere = Mate, Companion.

*** The Publisher desires to state that the "Ballad of the Goodly Fere"—by the wish of the Author—is reproduced exactly as it appeared in the "English Review."

Hymn IIIFrom the Latin of Marc Antony Flaminius, sixteenth century.As a fragile and lovely flower unfolds its gleamingfoliage on the breast of the fostering earth, ifthe dew and the rain draw it forth;So doth my tender mind flourish, if it be fed with thesweet dew of the fostering spirit,Lacking this, it beginneth straightway to languish,even as a floweret born upon dry earth, if thedew and the rain tend it not.Sestina for YsoltThere comes upon me will to speak in praiseOf things most fragile in their loveliness;Because the sky hath wept all this long dayAnd wrapped men's hearts within its cloak of greyness,Because they look not down I sing the stars,Because 'tis still mid-March I praise May's flowers.Also I praise long hands that lie as flowersWhich though they labour not are worthy praise,And praise deep eyes like pools wherein the starsGleam out reflected in their loveliness,For whoso look on such there is no greynessMay hang about his heart on any day.The other things that I would praise to-day?Besides white hands and all the fragile flowers,And by their praise dispel the evening's greyness?I praise dim hair that worthiest is of praiseAnd dream upon its unbound loveliness,And how therethrough mine eyes have seen the stars.Yea, through that cloud mine eyes have seen the starsThat drift out slowly when night steals the day,Through such a cloud meseems their lovelinessSurpasses that of all the other flowers.For that one night I give all nights my praiseAnd love therefrom the twilight's coming greyness.There is a stillness in this twilight greynessAlthough the rain hath veiled the flow'ry stars,They seem to listen as I weave this praiseOf what I have not seen all this grey day,And they will tell my praise unto the flowersWhen May shall bid them in in loveliness.O ye I love, who hold this lovelinessNear to your hearts, may never any greynessEnshroud your hearts when ye would gather flowers,Or bind your eyes when ye would see the stars;But alway do I give ye flowers by day,And when day's plucked I give ye stars for praise.But most, thou Flower, whose eyes are like the stars,With whom my dreams bide all the live-long day,Within thy hands would I rest all my praise.PortraitFrom "La Mère Inconnue."Now would I weave her portrait out of all dim splendour.Of Provence and far halls of memory,Lo, there come echoes, faint diversityOf blended bells at even's end, orAs the distant seas should send herThe tribute of their trembling, ceaselesslyResonant. Out of all dreams that be,Say, shall I bid the deepest dreams attend her?Nay! For I have seen the purplest shadows standAlway with reverent chere that looked on her,Silence himself is grown her worshipperAnd ever doth attend her in that landWherein she reigneth, wherefore let there stirNaught but the softest voices, praising her."Fair Helena" by Rackham"What I love best in all the world?"When the purple twilight is unbound,To watch her slow, tall graceand its wistful loveliness,And to know her faceis in the shadow there,Just by two stars beneath that cloud—The soft, dim cloud of her hair,And to think my voicecan reach to herAs but the rumour of some tree-bound stream,Heard just beyond the forest's edge,Until she all forgets I am,And knows of meNaught but my dream's felicity.Laudantes Decem PulchritudinisJohannae TempliIWhen your beauty is grown old in all men's songs,And my poor words are lost amid that throng,Then you will know the truth of my poor words,And mayhap dreaming of the wistful throngThat hopeless sigh your praises in their songs,You will think kindly then of these mad words.III am torn, torn with thy beauty,O Rose of the sharpest thorn!O Rose of the crimson beauty,Why hast thou awakened the sleeper?Why hast thou awakened the heart within me,O Rose of the crimson thorn?IIIThe unappeasable lovelinessis calling to me out of the wind,And because your nameis written upon the ivory doors,The wave in my heart is as a green wave, unconfined,Tossing the white foam toward you;And the lotus that poursHer fragrance into the purple cup,Is more to be gained with the foamThan are you with these words of mine.IVHe speaks to the moonlight concerning the Beloved.Pale hair that the moon has shakenDown over the dark breast of the sea,O magic her beauty has shakenAbout the heart of me;Out of you have I woven a dreamThat shall walk in the lonely valeBetwixt the high hill and the low hill,Until the pale streamOf the souls of men quench and grow still.VVoices speaking to the sun.Red leaf that art blown upward and out and overThe green sheaf of the world,And through the dim forest and underThe shadowed arches and the aisles,We, who are older than thou art,Met and remembered when his eyes beheld herIn the garden of the peach-trees,In the day of the blossoming.VII stood on the hill of Yrmawhen the winds were a-hurrying,With the grasses a-bendingI followed them,Through the brown grasses of Ahvaunto the green of Asedon.I have rested with the voicesin the gardens of Ahthor,I have lain beneath the peach-treesin the hour of the purple:Because I had awaited inthe garden of the peach-trees,Because I had feared notin the forest of my mind,Mine eyes beheld the vision of the blossomThere in the peach-gardens past Asedon.O winds of Yrma, let her again come unto me,Whose hair ye held unbound in the gardens of Ahthor!VIIBecause of the beautiful white shoulders and the rounded breastsI can in no wise forget my beloved of the peach-trees,And the little winds that speak when the dawn is unfurledAnd the rose-colour in the grey oak-leaf's foldWhen it first comes, and the glamour that restsOn the little streams in the evening; all of theseCall me to her, and all the loveliness in the worldBinds me to my beloved with strong chains of gold.VIIIIf the rose-petals which have fallen upon my eyesAnd if the perfect faces which I see at timesWhen my eyes are closed—Faces fragile, pale, yet flushed a little, like petals of roses:If these things have confused my memories of herSo that I could not draw her faceEven if I had skill and the colours,Yet because her face is so like these thingsThey but draw me nearer unto her in my thoughtAnd thoughts of her come upon my mind gently,As dew upon the petals of roses.IXHe speaks to the rain.O pearls that hang on your little silver chains,The innumerable voices that are whisperingAmong you as you are drawn aside by the wind,Have brought to my mind the soft and eager speechOf one who hath great loveliness,Which is subtle as the beauty of the rainsThat hang low in the moonshine and bringThe May softly among us, and unbindThe streams and the crimson and white flowers and reachDeep down into the secret places.XThe 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 heartGone out slowly in the twilightToward my beloved,Toward the crimson rose, the fairest.Aux Belles de LondresI am aweary with the utter and beautiful wearinessAnd with the ultimate wisdom and with things terrene,I am aweary with your smiles and your laughter,And the sun and the winds againReclaim their booty and the heart o' me.FrancescaYou came in out of the nightAnd 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 thingsWas angry when they spoke your nameIn 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.Greek EpigramDay and night are never weary,Nor yet is God of creatingFor day and night their torch-bearersThe 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,Let me be a man as the herd,And as the slave that is given in barter.Christophori Columbi TumulusFrom the Latin of Hipolytus Capilupus, Early Cent XVI.Genoan, glory of Italy, Columbus thou sure light,Alas the urn takes even thee so soon out-blown.Its little spaceDoth hold thee, whom Oceanus had not the mightWithin his folds to hold, altho' his broad embraceDoth hold all lands.Bark-borne beyond his bound'ries unto Hind thou wastWhere scarce Fame's volant self the way had cast.PlotinusAs one that would draw through the node of things,Back sweeping to the vortex of the cone,Cloistered about with memories, aloneIn chaos, while the waiting silence sings:Obliviate of cycles' wanderingsI was an atom on creation's throneAnd 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 INew thoughts as crescent images ofme.And with them was my essence reconciledWhile fear went forth from mine eternity.On His Own Face in a GlassO strange face there in the glass!O ribald company, O saintly host,O sorrow-swept my fool,What answer? O ye myriadThat strive and play and pass,Jest, challenge, counterlie?I? I? I?And ye?HistrionNo man hath dared to write this thing as yet,And yet I know, how that the souls of all men greatAt times pass through us,And we are melted into them, and are notSave reflexions of their souls.Thus am I Dante for a space and amOne François Villon, ballad-lord and thiefOr 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 sphereTranslucent, 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'sImposed thereon,So cease we from all being for the time,And these, the Masters of the Soul, live on.The EyesRest Master, for we be a-weary, wearyAnd would feel the fingers of the windUpon these lids that lie over usSodden and lead-heavy.Rest brother, for lo! the dawn is without!The yellow flame palethAnd 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 perishIn this ever-flowing monotonyOf ugly print marks, blackUpon white parchment.Free us, for there is oneWhose smile more availethThan all the age-old knowledge of thy books:And we would look thereon.DefianceYe blood-red spears-men of the dawn's arrayThat drive my dusk-clad knights of dream away,Hold! For I will not yield.My moated soul shall dream in your despiteA refuge for the vanquished hosts of nightThatcannot yield.SongLove thou thy dreamAll base love scorning,Love thou the windAnd here take warningThat dreams alone can truly be,For 'tis in dream I come to thee.Nel BiancheggiarBlue-Grey, and white, and white-of-rose,The flowers of the West's fore-dawn unclose.I feel the dusky softness whirrOf colour, as upon a dulcimer"Her" dreaming fingers lay between the tunes,As when the living music swoonsBut dies not quite, because for love of us—knowing our stateHow that 'tis troublous—It wills not die to leave us desolate.Nils LykkeBeautiful, infinite memoriesThat are a-plucking at my heart,Why will you be ever calling and a-calling,And a-murmuring in the dark there?And a-reaching out your long handsBetween me and my beloved?And why will you be ever a-castingThe black shadow of your beautyOn the white face of my belovedAnd a-glinting in the pools of her eyes?A Song of the Virgin MotherIn the play "Los Pastores de Belen."From the Spanish of Lope de Vega.As ye go through these palm-treesO holy angel;Sith sleepeth my child hereStill ye the branches.O Bethlehem palm-treesThat move to the angerOf winds in their fury,Tempestuous voices,Make ye no clamour,Run ye less swiftly,Sith sleepeth the child hereStill ye your branches.He the divine childIs here a-weariedOf weeping the earth-pain,Here for his rest would heCease from his mourning,Only a little while,Sith sleepeth this child hereStay ye the branches.Cold be the fierce winds,Treacherous round him.Ye see that I have notWherewith to guard him,O angels, divine onesThat pass us a-flying,Sith sleepeth my child hereStay ye the branches.Planh for the Young English KingThat is, Prince Henry Plantagenet, elder brother toRichard "Coeur de Lion."From the Provençal of Bertrans de Born "Si tuit li dol elhplor elh marrimen."If all the grief and woe and bitterness,All dolour, ill and every evil chanceThat ever came upon this grieving worldWere set together they would seem but lightAgainst 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 bitternessAre left in teen the liegemen courteous,The joglars supple and the troubadours.O'er much hath ta'en Sir Death that deadly warriorIn taking from them the young English King,Who made the freest hand seem covetous.'Las! Never was nor will be in this worldThe balance for this loss in ire and sadness!O skilful Death and full of bitterness,Well mayst thou boast that thou the best chevalierThat any folk e'er had, hast from us taken;Sith nothing is that unto worth pertainethBut had its life in the young English King,And better were it, should God grant his pleasureThat he should live than many a Irving dastardThat doth but wound the good with ire and sadness.From this faint world, how full of bitternessLove takes his way and holds his joy deceitful,Sith no thing is but turneth unto anguishAnd each to-day 'vails less than yestere'en,Let each man visage this young English KingThat 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 bitternessTo come to earth to draw us from misventure,Who drank of death for our salvacioun,Him do we pray as to a Lord most righteousAnd humble eke, that the young English KingHe please to pardon, as true pardon is,And bid go in with honoured companionsThere where there is no grief, nor shall be sadness.Alba InnominataFrom the Provençal.In a garden where the whitethorn spreads her leavesMy 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,Nor watch cry 'Dawn'—Ah dawn that slayeth peace!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 againDown in the garden, where the birds are loud,Till the warder's reed astrainCry God! Ah God! That dawn should come so soon!"Of that sweet wind that comes from Far-AwayHave 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!PlanhIt is of the white thoughts that he saw in the Forest.White Poppy, heavy with dreams,O White Poppy, who art wiser than love,Though I am hungry for their lipsWhen I see them a-hidingAnd 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 skyEre the stars arise to their hunting.O White Poppy, who art wiser than love,I am come for peace, yea from the huntingAm 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 lipsWhen I see them a-hidingAnd 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?For I have followed the white folk of the forest.Aye! It's a long huntingAnd it's a deep hunger I have when I see them a-glidingAnd a-flickering there, where the trees stand apart.But oh, it is sorrow and sorrowWhen love dies-down in the heart.

Personae

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SOME EARLY REVIEWS

The Observersays:—"It is something, after all, intangible and indescribable that makes the real poetry. Criticism and praise alike give no idea of it Everyone who pretends to know it when he sees it, should read and keep this little book."

The Bookman:—"No new book of poems for years past has had such a freshness of inspiration, such a strongly individual note, or been more alive with undoubtable promise."

The Daily Chronicle:—" All his poems are like this, from beginning 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 1/2 page detailed critique, by Mr. Edward Thomas, inThe 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. He cannot be usefully compared with any living writers;... 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 intensity, 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 verse would expect in the treatment of such a subject. This admirable poet...."

The Oxford Magazine:—"This is a most exciting book of poems."

The Evening Standard:—"A queer little book which will irritate many readers."

The Morning Post:—" Mr. Ezra Pound ... immediately compels our admiration by his fearlessness and lack of self-consciousness."

The Isis(Oxford):—"This book has about it the breath of the open air,... physically and intellectually the verse seems to reproduce the personality with a brief fulness and adequacy. It is 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 is to be found. Mr. Pound has a true and invariable feeling for the measures he employs ... this wonderful little book...."

The Daily Telegraph:—"A poet with individuality.... Thread of true beauty.... lifts it out of the ruck of those many volumes, the writers or which toe the line of poetic convention, and please for no more than a single reading."

Mr. Punch, concerning a certain Mr. Ezekiel Ton:—"By far the newest poet going, whatever other advertisements may say;" and announced as "the most remarkable thing in poetry since Robert Browning," says:—"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 Borgaic Italy."

Mr. Scott-James, inThe Daily News:—"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 of their own; the brute force of Mr. Pound's imagination seems to impart some quality of infectious beauty to his words.... With Mr. Pound 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 fierceness, eagerness, and tenderness.... he has individuality, passion, force, and an acquaintance with things that are profoundly moving." 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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