The Project Gutenberg eBook ofPersonae

The Project Gutenberg eBook ofPersonaeThis 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: PersonaeAuthor: Ezra PoundRelease date: October 24, 2012 [eBook #41162]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 PERSONAE ***

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: PersonaeAuthor: Ezra PoundRelease date: October 24, 2012 [eBook #41162]Most recently updated: October 23, 2024Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Marc D'Hooghe (Images generously made available by the Internet Archive)

Title: Personae

Author: Ezra Pound

Release date: October 24, 2012 [eBook #41162]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 PERSONAE ***

"Make-strong old dreams lest this our world lose heart."

CONTENTSGRACE BEFORE SONGLA FRAISNECINONA AUDIARTVILLONAUD FOR THIS YULEA VILLONAUD: BALLAD OF THE GIBBETMESMERISMFIFINE ANSWERSIN TEMPORE SENECTUTISFAMAM LIBROSQUE CANOSCRIPTOR IGNOTUSPRAISE OF YSOLTCAMARADERIEMASKSTALLY-OBALLAD FOR GLOOMFOR E. Mc CAT THE HEART O' MEXENIAOCCIDITSEARCHAN IDYL FOR GLAUCUSIN DURANCEGUILLAUME DE LORRIS BELATEDIN THE OLD AGE OF THE SOULALBA BELINGALISFROM SYRIAFROM THE SADDLEMARVOILREVOLTAND THUS IN NINEVEHTHE WHITE STAGPICCADILLYNOTES

Lord God of heaven that with mercy dightTh' alternate prayer-wheel of the night and lightEternal hath to thee, and in whose sightOur days as rain drops in the sea surge fall,As bright white drops upon a leaden seaGrant so my songs to this grey folk may be:As drops that dream and gleam and falling catch the sun,Evan'scent mirrors every opal oneOf such his splendour as their compass is,So, bold My Songs, seek ye such death as this.

SCENE:The Ash Wood of Malvern.

For I was a gaunt, grave councillorBeing in all things wise, and very old,But I have put aside this folly and the coldThat 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 gayIn another fashion that more suiteth me.I have curled mid the boles of the ash wood,I have hidden my face where the oakSpread his leaves over me, and the yokeOf the old ways of men have I cast aside.By the still pool of Mar-nan-othaHave I found me a brideThat was a dog-wood tree some syne.She hath called me from mine old waysShe hath hushed my rancour of council,Bidding me praiseNaught 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.I wrapped my tears in an ellum leafAnd left them under a stoneAnd now men call me mad because I have thrownAll folly from me, putting it asideTo leave the old barren ways of men,Because my brideIs a pool of the wood, andThough all men say that I am madIt is only that I am glad,Very glad, for my bride hath toward me a great loveThat is sweeter than the love of womenThat plague and burn and drive one away.Aie-e! 'Tis true that I am gayQuite gay, for I have her alone hereAnd 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 blowIn the ash trees here:For we are quite aloneHere mid the ash trees.

[1]Prefatory note at end of volume.

Italian Campagna1309,the open road.

Bah! I have sung women in three cities,But it is all the same;And I will sing of the sun.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 tuneingOnce for Wind-runeingThey dream us-toward andSighing, say, "Would Cino,Passionate Cino, of the wrinkling eyes,Gay Cino, of quick laughter,Cino, of the dare, the jibe,Frail Cino, strongest of his tribeThat 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 PolnesiThe singer is't you mean?""Ah yes, passed once our way,A saucy fellow, but....(Oh they are all one these vagabonds),Peste! 'tis his own songs?Or some other's that he sings?Butyou, My Lord, how with your city?But you "My Lord," God's pity!And all I knew were out, My Lord, youWere Lack-land Cino, e'en as I am,O Sinistro.I 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."'Pollo Phoibee, old tin pan, youGlory to Zeus' aegis-day,Shield o' steel-blue, th' heaven o'er usHath for boss thy lustre gay!'Pollo Phoibee, to our way-fareMake thy laugh our wander-lied;Bid thy 'fulgence bear away care.Cloud and rain-tears pass they fleet!Seeking e'er the new-laid rast-wayTo the gardens of the sun....* * * * ** * * * *I have sung women in three citiesBut it is all one.I will sing of the white birdsIn the blue waters of heaven,The clouds that are spray to its sea.

Que be-m vols mal.

NOTE: Any one who has read anything of the troubadours knows well the tale of Bertran of Born and My Lady Maent of Montaignac, and knows also the song he made when she would none of him, the song wherein he, seeking to find or make her equal, begs of each preeminent lady of Langue d'Oc some trait or some fair semblance: thus of Cembelins her "esgart amoros" to wit, her love-lit glance, of Aelis her speech free-running, of the Vicomptess 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."

Though thou well dost wish me illAudiart, Audiart,Where thy bodice laces startAs ivy fingers clutching throughIts crevices,Audiart, Audiart,Stately, tall and lovely tenderWho shall renderAudiart, AudiartPraises meet unto thy fashion?Here a word kiss!Pass I onUnto Lady "Miels-de-Ben,"Having praised thy girdle's scopeHow the stays ply back from it;I breathe no hopeThat thou shouldst....Nay no whitBespeak thyself for anything.Just a word in thy praise, girl,Just for the swirlThy satins make upon the stair,'Cause never a flaw was thereWhere thy torse and limbs are met:Though thou hate me, read it setIn rose and gold.[2]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 praiseSets forth, and though thou hate me well,Yea though thou wish me illAudiart, Audiart.Thy loveliness is here writ till,Audiart,Oh, till thou come again.[3]And being bent and wrinkled, in a formThat hath no perfect limning, when the warmYouth dew is coldUpon thy hands, and thy old soulScorning a new, wry'd casementChurlish at seemed misplacementFinds the earth as bitterAs now seems it sweet,Being so young and fairAs then only in dreams,Being then young and wry'd,Broken of ancient pride,Thou shalt then soften,Knowing I know not howThou wert once sheAudiart, AudiartFor whose fairness one forgaveAudiart, AudiartQue be-m vols mal.

[2]I.e. in illumed manuscript.

[3]Reincarnate.

Towards the Noel that morte saison(Christ make the shepherds' homage dear!)Then when the grey wolves everychoneDrink of the winds their chill small-beerAnd lap o' the snows food's gueredonThen makyth my heart his yule-tide cheer(Skoal! with the dregs if the clear be gone!)Wineing the ghosts of yester-year.Ask ye what ghosts I dream upon?(What of the magians' scented gear?)The ghosts of dead loves everyoneThat make the stark winds reek with fearLest love return with the foison sunAnd slay the memories that me cheer(Such as I drink to mine fashion)Wineing the ghosts of yester-year.Where are the joys my heart had won?(Saturn and Mars to Zeus drawn near!)[4]Where are the lips mine lay upon,Aye! where are the glances feat and clearThat bade my heart his valour don?I skoal to the eyes as grey-blown mere(Who knows whose was that paragon?)Wineing the ghosts of yester-year.Prince: ask me not what I have doneNor what God hath that can me cheerBut ye ask first where the winds are goneWineing the ghosts of yester-year.

[4]Signum Nativitatis.

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: whereof ye know:"Frères humains qui après nous vivez."

Drink ye a skoal for the gallows tree!Francois and Margot and thee and me,Drink we the comrades merrilyThat said us, "Till then" for the gallows tree!Fat Pierre with the hook gauche-main,Thomas Larron "Ear-the-less,"Tybalde and that armouressWho gave this poignard its premier stainPinning the Guise that had been fainTo make him a mate of the "Haulte Noblesse"And bade her be out with ill addressAs a fool that mocketh his drue's disdeign.Drink we a skoal for the gallows tree!Francois and Margot and thee and me,Drink we to Marienne Ydole,That hell brenn not her o'er cruelly.Drink we the lusty robbers twain,Black is the pitch o' their wedding-dress,[5]Lips shrunk back for the wind's caressAs lips shrink back when we feel the strainOf love that loveth in hell's disdeignAnd sense the teeth through the lips that press'Gainst our lips for the soul's distressThat 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 VallerieWhose frames have the night and its winds in fee.Maturin, Guillaume, Jacques d'Allmain,Culdou lacking a coat to blessOne lean moiety of his nakednessThat plundered St. Hubert back o' the fane:Aie! the lean bare tree is widowed againFor Michault le Borgne that would confessIn "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:These that we loved shall God love lessAnd smite alway at their faibleness?Skoal!! to the Gallows! and then pray we:God damn his hell out speedilyAnd bring their souls to his "Haulte Citee."

[5]Certain gibbeted corpses used to be coated with tar as a preservative; thus one scarecrow served as warning for considerable time. See Hugo "L'Homme qui Rit."

"And a cat's in the water-butt."—ROBERT BROWNING.

Aye you're a man that! ye old mesmerizerTyin' your meanin' in seventy swadelin's,One must of needs be a hang'd early riserTo 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'll believe you,You, Master Bob Browning, spite your apparelJump to your sense and give praise as we'd lief do.You wheeze as a head-cold long-tonsilled Calliope,But God! what a sight you ha' got o' our in'ards,Mad as a hatter but surely no Myope,Broad as all ocean and leanin' man-kin'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.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 centsInto your versicles.Clear sight's elector!

"Why is it that, disgraced they seem to relish lifethe more?"—FIFINE AT THE FAIR, VII, 5.

Sharing his exile that hath borne the flame,Joining his freedom that hath drunk the shameAnd known the torture of the Skull-place hoursFree and so bound, that mingled with the powersOf air and sea and light his soul's far reachYet strictured did the body-lips beseech"To drink" "I thirst." And then the sponge of gall.Wherefore we wastrels that the grey road's callDoth master and make slaves and yet make free,Drink all of life and quaffing lustilyTake bitter with the sweet without complainAnd sharers in his drink defy the painThat makes you fearful to unfurl your souls.We claim no glory. If the tempest rollsAbout us we have fear, and thenHaving so small a stake grow bold again.We know not definitely even thisBut 'cause some vague half knowing half doth missOur consciousness and leaves us feelingThat somehow all is well, that sober, reelingFrom the last carouse, or in what measureOf so called right or so damned wrong our leisureRuns out uncounted sand beneath the sun,That, spite your carping, still the thing is doneWith some deep sanction, that, we know not how,Sans thought gives us this feeling; you allowThat this not need weknowour every thoughtOr see the work shop where each mask is wroughtWherefrom we view the world of box and pit,Careless of wear, just so the mask shall fitAnd serve our jape's turn for a night or two.Call! eh bye! the little door at twelve!I meet you there myself.

"For we are oldAnd the earth passion dieth;We have watched him die a thousand times,When he wanes an old wind crieth,For we are oldAnd passion hath died for us a thousand timesBut we grew never weary.Memory faileth, as the lotus-loved chimesSink into fluttering of wind,But we grow never wearyFor we are old.The strange night-wonder of your eyesDies not, though passion fliethAlong the star fields of ArcturusAnd is no more unto our hands;My lips are coldAnd 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 wordsFor our wonder that grows not old.The moth-hour of our day is upon usHolding the dawn;There is strange Night-wonder in our eyesBecause the Moth-Hour leadeth the dawnAs a maiden, holding her fingers,The rosy, slender fingers of the dawn."He saith: "Red spears bore the warrior dawnOf oldStrange! Love, hast thou forgottenThe red spears of the dawn,The pennants of the morning?"She saith: "Nay, I remember, but nowCometh the Dawn, and the Moth-HourTogether with him; softlyFor we are old."

Your songs?Oh! The little mothersWill sing them in the twilight,And when the nightShrinketh the kiss of the dawnThat loves and kills,What time the swallow fillsHer note, the little rabbit folkThat some call children,Such as are up and wideWill laugh your verses to each other,Pulling on their shoes for the day's business,Serious child business that the worldLaughs at, and grows stale;Such is the tale—Part of it—of thy song-lifeMine?A book is known by them that readThat same. Thy public in my screedIs listed. Well! Some score years henceBehold mine audience,As we had seen him yesterday.Scrawny, be-spectacled, out at heels,Such an one as the world feelsA sort of curse against its guzzlingAnd its age-lasting wallow for red greedAnd yet; full speedThough it should run for its own getting,Will turn aside to sneer at'Cause he hathNo coin, no will to snatch the aftermathOf Mammon.Such an one as women draw away fromFor the tobacco ashes scattered on his coatAnd sith his throatShow razor's unfamiliarityAnd three days' beard:Such an one picking a raggedBackless copy from the stall,Too cheap for cataloguing,Loquitur,"Ah-eh! the strange rare name....Ah-eh! He must be rare if evenIhave not....And lost mid-pageSuch ageAs his pardons the habit,He analyzes form and thought to seeHow I 'scaped immortality.

To K.R.H.

"When I see thee as some poor song-birdBattering its wings, against this cage weToday,Then would I speak comfort unto thee,From out the heights I dwell in, whenThat great sense of power is upon meAnd I see my greater soul-self bendingSibylwise with that great forty year epicThat you know of, yet unwritBut as some child's toy 'tween my fingers,And see the sculptors of new ages carve me thus,And model with the music of my couplets in their hearts:Surely if in the end the epicAnd the small kind deed are one;If to God the child's toy and the epic are the same,E'en so, did one make a child's toy,He might wright it wellAnd cunningly, that the child mightKeep it for his children's childrenAnd all have joy thereof.Dear, an this dream come true,Then shall all men say of thee"She 'twas that played him power at life's morn,And at the twilight Evensong,And God's peace dwelt in the mingled chordsShe drew from out the shadows of the past,And old world melodies that elseHe had known only in his dreamsOf Iseult and of Beatrice.Dear, an this dream come true,I, who being poet only,Can give thee poor words only,Add this one poor other tribute,This thing men call immortality.A gift I give thee even as Ronsard gave it.Seeing before time, one sweet face grown old,And seeing the old eyes grow brightFrom out the border of Her fire-lit wrinkles,As she should make boast unto her maids"Ronsard hath sung the beauty,mybeauty,Of the days that I was fair."So hath the boon been given, by the poets of old time(Dante to Beatrice,—an I profane not—)Yet with my lesser power shall I not striveTo give it thee?All ends of things are with HimFrom whom are all things in their essence.If my power be lesserShall my striving be less keen?But rather more! if I would reach the goal,Take then the striving!"And if," for so the Florentine hath writWhen having put all his heartInto his "Youth's Dear Book"He yet strove to do more honourTo that lady dwelling in his inmost soulHe would wax yet greaterTo make her earthly glory more.Though sight of hell and heaven were price thereof,If so it be His will, with whomAre all things and through whomAre all things good,Will I make for thee and for the beauty of thy musicA new thingAs hath not heretofore been writ.Take then my promise!

In vain have I strivento teach my heart to bow;In vain have I said to him"There be many singers greater than thou."But his answer cometh, as winds and as lutany.As a vague crying upon the nightThat leaveth me no rest, saying ever,"Song, a song."Their echoes play upon each other in the twilightSeeking ever a song.Lo, I am worn with travailAnd the wandering of many roads hath made my eyesAs dark red circles filled with dust.Yet there is a trembling upon me in the twilight,And little red elf words crying "A song,"Little grey elf wordscrying for a song,Little brown leaf words crying "A song,"Little green leaf wordscrying for a song.The words are as leaves, old brown leaves in thespring timeBlowing they know not whither, seeking a song.White words as snow flakes but they are coldMoss words, lip words, words of slow streams.In vain have I strivento teach my soul to bow,In vain have I pled with him,"There be greater souls than thou."For in the morn of my years there came a womanAs moon light callingAs the moon calleth the tides,"Song, a song."Wherefore I made her a song and she went from meAs the moon doth from the sea,But still came the leaf words, little brown elf wordsSaying "The soul sendeth us.""A song, a song!"And in vain I cried unto them "I have no songFor she I sang of hath gone from me."But my soul sent a woman, a woman of the wonder folk,A woman as fire upon the pine woodscrying "Song, a song."As the flame crieth unto the sap.My song was ablaze with her and she went from meAs flame leaveth the embers so went she unto new forestsAnd the words were with mecrying ever "Song, a song."And I "I have no song,"Till my soul sent a woman as the sun:Yea as the sun calleth to the seed,As the spring upon the boughSo is she that cometh the song-drawerShe that holdeth the wonder words within her eyesThe words little elf wordsthat call ever unto me"Song, a song."ENVOIIn vain have I striven with my soulto teach my soul to bow.What soul bowethwhile in his heart art thou?

"E tuttoque to fosse a la compagnia di molti, quantoalla vista."

Sometimes I feel thy cheek against my faceClose-pressing, soft as is the South's first breathThat all the subtle earth-things summonethTo spring in wood-land and in meadow space.Yea sometimes in a bustling man-filled placeMe seemeth some-wise thy hair wanderethAcross mine eyes, as mist that hallowethThe air awhile and giveth all things grace.Or on still evenings when the rain falls closeThere comes a tremor in the drops, and fastMy pulses run, knowing thy thought hath passedThat beareth thee as doth the wind a rose.

These tales of old disguisings, are they notStrange myths of souls that found themselves amongUnwonted folk that spake a hostile tongue,Some soul from all the rest who'd not forgotThe star-span acres of a former lotWhere boundless mid the clouds his course he swung,Or carnate with his elder brothers sungE'er ballad makers lisped of Camelot?Old singers half-forgetful of their tunes,Old painters colour-blind come back once more,Old poets skilless in the wind-heart runes,Old wizards lacking in their wonder-lore:All they that with strange sadness in their eyesPonder in silence o'er earth's queynt devyse?

What ho! the wind is up and eloquent.Through all the Winter's halls he crieth Spring.Now will I get me up unto mine own forestsAnd behold their bourgeoning.

For God, our God, is a gallant foeThat playeth behind the veil.I have loved my God as a child at heartThat seeketh deep bosoms for rest,I have loved my God as maid to manBut lo, this thing is best:To love your God as a gallant foethat plays behind the veil,To meet your God as the night winds meetbeyond 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 bladeBut hear ye this thing in sooth:Who loseth to God as man to manShall win at the turn of the game.I have drawn my blade where the lightnings meetBut the ending is the same:Who loseth to God as the sword blades loseShall win at the end of the game.For God, our God, is a gallant foethat playeth behind the veil,Whom God deigns not to overthrowHath need of triple mail.

That was my counter-blade under Leonardo Terrone,Master of Fence.

Gone while your tastes were keen to you,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 gallantlyMade you your pass most valiantly'Gainst that grey fencer, even Death.Gone as a gust of breathFaith! no man tarrieth,"Se il cor ti manca" but it failed thee not!"Non ti fidar" it is the sword that speaks"In me."[6]Thou trusted'st in thyself and met the blade'Thout mask or gauntlet, and art laidAs memorable broken blades that beKept as bold trophies of old pageantry.As old Toledos past their days of warAre kept mnemonic of the strokes they bore,So art thou with us, being good to keepIn our heart's sword-rack, though thy sword-arm sleep.ENVOIStruck of the blade that no man parriethPierced of the point that toucheth lastly all,'Gainst that grey fencer, even Death,Behold the shield! He shall not take thee all.

[6]Sword-rune "If thy heart fail thee trust not in me."

With ever one fear at the heart o' meLong by still sea-coastscoursed my Grey-Falcon,And the twin delightsof shore and sea were mine,Sapphire and emerald withfine pearls between.Through the pale courses ofthe land-caressing in-streamsGlided my barge andthe kindly strange peoplesGave to me laugh for laugh,and wine for my tales of wandering.And the cities gave me welcomeand the fields free passage,With ever one fearat the heart o' me.An thou should'st grow wearyere my returning,An "they" should call to theefrom out the borderland,What should avail mebooty of whale-ways?What should avail megold rings or the chain-mail?What should avail methe many-twined bracelets?What should avail me,O my beloved,Here in this "Middan-gard"[7]what should avail meOut of the booty andgain of my goings?

[7]Anglo Saxon "Earth".

AndUnto thine eyes my heartSendeth old dreams of the spring-time,Yea of wood-ways my rimeFound thee and flowers in and of all streamsThat sang low burthen, and of roses,That lost their dew-bowed petals for the dreamsWe scattered o'er them passing by.

Autumnal breaks the flame upon the sun-set herds.The sheep on Gilead as tawn hair gleamNeath Mithra's dower and his slow departing,While in the sky a thousand fleece of goldBear, each his tribute, to the waning god.Hung on the rafters of the effulgent west,Their tufted splendour shields his decadence,As in our southern lands brave tapestriesAre hung king-greeting from the ponticellsAnd drag the pageant from the earth to air,Wherein the storied figures live again,Wind-molden back unto their life's erst guise,All tremulous beneath the many-fingered breathThat Aufidus[8]doth take to house his soul.

[8]The West wind.

I have heard a wee wind searchingThrough still forests for me;I have seen a wee wind searchingO'er still sea.Through woodlands dim have I taken my way;And o'er silent waters night and dayHave I sought the wee wind.

Nel suo aspetto tal dentro mifeiQual si fe' Glauco nel gustar dell' erbaChe il fe' consorto in mar degli altri dei.PARADISO, I, 67-9."As Glaucus tasting the grass that madehim sea-fellow with the other gods."

IWhither he went I may not follow him. His eyesWere strange to-day. They always were,After their fashion, kindred of the sea.To-day I found him. It is very longThat I had sought among the nets, and when I askedThe fishermen, they laughed at me.I sought long days amid the cliffs thinking to findThe body-house of him, and thenThere at the blue cave-mouth my joyGrew pain for suddenness, to see him 'live.Whither he went I may not come, it seemsHe is become estranged from all the rest,And all the sea is now his wonder-house.And he may sink unto strange depths, he tells me of,That have no light as we it deem.E'en now he speaks strange words. I did not knowOne half the substance of his speech with me.And then when I saw naught he sudden leapedAnd shot, a gleam of silver, down, away.And I have spent three days upon this rockAnd yet he comes no more.He did not even seem to knowI watched him gliding through the vitreous deep.IIThey chide me that the skein I used to spinHolds not my interest now,They mock me at the route, well, I have come again.Last night I saw three white forms moveOut past the utmost wave that bears the white foam crest.I somehow knew that he was one of them.Oimè, Oimè. I think each time they comeUp from the sea heart to the realm of airThey are more far-removed from the shore.When first I found him here, he sleptE'en as he might after a long night's taking on the deep.And when he woke some whit the old kind smileDwelt round his lips and held him near to me.But then strange gleams shot through the grey-deep eyesAs though he saw beyond and saw not me.And when he moved to speak it troubled him.And then he plucked at grass and bade me eat.And then forgot me for the sea its charmAnd leapt him in the wave and so was gone.IIII wonder why he mocked me with the grass.I know not any more how long it isSince I have dwelt not in my mother's house.I know they think me mad, for all night longI haunt the sea-marge, thinking I may findSome day the herb he offered unto me.Perhaps he did not jest; they say some simples haveMore wide-spanned power than old wives draw from them.Perhaps, found I this grass, he'd come again.Perhaps 'tis some strange charm to draw him here,'Thout which he may not leave his new-found crewThat ride the two-foot coursers of the deep,And laugh in storms and break the fishers' nets.Oimè, Oimè!SONG.Voices in the Wind.We have worn the blue and vair,And all the sea-cavesKnow us of old, and know our new-found mate.There's many a secret stairThe sea-folk climb....Out of the Wind.Oimè, Oimè!I wonder why the wind, even the wind doth seemTo mock me now, all night, all night, andHave I strayed among the cliffs hereThey say, some day I'll fallDown through the sea-bit fissures, and no moreKnow the warm cloak of sun, or batheThe dew across my tired eyes to comfort them.They try to keep me hid within four walls.I will not stay!Oimè!And the wind saith; Oimè!I am quite tired now. I know the grassMust grow somewhere along this Thracian coast,If only he would come some little while and find it me.ENDETH THE LAMENT FOR GLAUCUS

I am homesick after mine own kind,Oh I know that there are folk about me, friendly faces,But I am homesick after mine own kind."These sell our pictures"! Oh well,They reach me not, touch me some edge or that,But reach me not and all my life's becomeOne flame, that reacheth not beyondMine heart's own hearth,Or hides among the ashes there for thee."Thee"? Oh "thee" is who cometh firstOut of mine own-soul-kin,For I am homesick after mine own kindAnd ordinary people touch me not.Yea, I am homesickAfter mine own kind that know, and feelAnd have some breath for beauty and the arts.Aye, I am wistful for my kin of the spiritAnd have none about me save in the shadowsWhen comethey, surging of power, "DAEMON,""Quasi KALOUN" S.T. says, Beauty is most that a"calling to the soul."Well then, so call they; the swirlers out of the mistof my soul,They that come mewards bearing old magic.But for all that, I am home sick after mine own kindAnd would meet kindred e'en as I am,Flesh-shrouded bearing the secret."All they that with strange sadness"Have the earth in mock'ry, and are kind to all,My fellows, aye I know the gloryOf th' unbounded ones, but ye, that hideAs I hide most the whileAnd burst forth to the windows only whiles or whilesFor love, or hope, or beauty or for power,Then smoulder, with the lids half closedAnd are untouched by echoes of the world.Oh ye, my fellows: with the seas between us some be,Purple and sapphire for the silver shaftsOf sun and spray all shattered at the bowsOf such a "Veltro" of the vasty deepAs bore my tortoise house scant years agone:And some the hills hold off,The little hills to east us, though here weHave damp and plain to be our shutting in.And yet my soul sings "Up!" and we are one.Yea thou, and Thou, and THOU, and all my kinTo whom my breast and arms are ever warm,For that I love ye as the wind the treesThat holds their blossoms and their leaves in cureAnd calls the utmost singing from the boughsThat 'thout him, save the aspen, were as dumbStill shade, and bade no whisper speak the birds of how"Beyond, beyond, beyond, there lies...."

Wisdom set apart from all desire,A hoary Nestor with youth's own glad eyes,Him met I at the style, and all benignHe greeted me an equal and I knew,By this his lack of pomp, he was himself.Slow-Smiling is companion unto him,And Mellow-Laughter serves, his trencherman.And I a thousand beauties there beheld.And he and they made merry endlessly.And love was rayed between them as a mist,And yet so fine and delicate a hazeIt did impede the eyes no whit,Unless it were to make the halo round each oneAppear more myriad-jewelled marvellous,Than any pearled and ruby diadem the courts o' earthha' known.Slender as mist-wrought maids and hamadryadsDid meseem these shapes that ministered,These formed harmonies with lake-deep eyes,And first the cities of north ItalyI did behold,Each as a woman wonder-fair,And svelte Verona first I met at eve;And in the dark we kissed and then the wayBore us somewhile apart.And yet my heart keeps tryst with her,So every year our thoughts are interwoveAs fingers were, such times as eyes see much, and tell.And she that loved the master years agone,That bears his signet in her "Signor Square,""Che lo glorifico."[9]She spread her arms,And in that deep embraceAll thoughts of woe were perishedAnd of pain and weariness and all the wrackOf light-contending thoughts and battled-gleams,(That our intelligence doth gain by strife against itself)Of things we have not yet the earnèd right to clearly see.And all, yea all that dust doth symbolizeWas there forgot, and my enfranchised soulGrew as the liquid elements, and was infusedWith joy that is not light, nor might nor harmony,And yet hath part and quality of all these three,Whereto is added calm past earthly peace.Thus with Verona's spirit, and all timeSwept on beyond my ken, and as the seaHath in no wise a form within itself,Cioè, as liquid hath no form save where it bounden isBy some enshrouding chalice of hard things—As wine its graven goblet, and the seaIts wave-hewn basalt for a bordering,So had my thought and now my thought's remembranceNo "information" of whatso there passedFor this long space the dream-king's horny gate.And when that age was done and the transfusionOf all my self through her and she through me,I did perceive that she enthroned two things:Verona, and a maid I knew on earth;And dulled some while from dream, and then becomeThat lower thing, deductive intellect, I sawHow all things are but symbols of all things,[10]And each of many, do we knowBut the equation governing.And in my rapture at this vision's scopeI saw no end or bourn to what things mean,So praised Pythagoras and once more raisedBy this said rapture to the house of Dream,Beheld Fenicè as a lotus-flowerDrift through the purple of the wedded seaAnd grow a wraith and then a dark-eyed she,And knew her name was "All-forgetfulness,"And hailed her: "Princess of the Opiates,"And guessed her evil and her good thereby.And then a maid of nine "Pavia" hight,Passed with a laugh that was all mystery,And when I turned to herShe reached me one clear chalice of white wine,Pressed from the recent grapes that yet were hungAdown her shoulders, and were boundRight cunningly about her elfish brows;So hale a draught, the life of every grapeLurked without ferment in the amber cloud.And memory, this wine was, of all good.And more I might have seen: Firenza, Goito,Or that proudest gate, Ligurian Genoa,Cornelia of Colombo of far sight,That, man and seer in one, had well been twain,And each a glory to his hills and sea;And past her a great bandBright garlanded or rich with purple skeins,And crimson mantles and queynt fineriesThat tarnished held but so the moreOf dim allurement in their half-shown folds:So swept my vision o'er their filmy ranks,Then rose some opaque cloud,Whose name I have not yet discerned,And music as I heard it one clear nightWithin our earthly night's own mirroring,Cioè,—San Pietro by Adige,[11]Where altar candles blazed out as dim stars,And all the gloom was soft, and shadowy formsMade and sang God, within the far-off choir.And in a clear space high behindThem and the tabernacle of that place,Two tapers shew the master of the keysAs some white power pouring forth itself.And all the church rang low and murmuredThus in my dream of forms the music swayed.And I was lost in it and only wokeWhen something like a mass bell rang, and thenThat white-foot wind, pale Dawn's annunciatrice.Me bore to earth again, but some strange peaceI had not known so well before this swevynClung round my head and made me hate earth less.

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