FOR this agility chance foundHim of all men, unfitAs the red-beaked steeds ofThe Cytheræan for a chain bit.The glow of porcelainBrought no reforming senseTo his perceptionOf the social inconsequence.Thus, if her colourCame against his gaze,Tempered as ifIt were through a perfect glazeHe made no immediate applicationOf this to relation of the stateTo the individual, the month was more temperateBecause this beauty had been.. . . . . . . . . .The coral isle, the lion-coloured sandBurst in upon the porcelain revery:Impetuous troublingOf his imagery.. . . . . . . . . .Mildness, amid the neo-Neitzschean clatter,His sense of graduations,Quite out of place amidResistance to current exacerbations,Invitation, mere invitation to perceptivityGradually led him to the isolationWhich these presents placeUnder a more tolerant, perhaps, examination.By constant eliminationThe manifest universeYielded an armourAgainst utter consternation,A Minoan undulation,Seen, we admit, amid ambrosial circumstancesStrengthened him againstThe discouraging doctrine of chances,And his desire for survival,Faint in the most strenuous moods,Became an OlympianapatheinIn the presence of selected perceptions.A pale gold, in the aforesaid pattern,The unexpected palmsDestroying, certainly, the artist’s urge,Left him delighted with the imaginaryAudition of the phantasmal sea-surge,Incapable of the least utterance or composition,Emendation, conservation of the “better tradition”Refinement of medium, elimination of superfluities,August attraction or concentration.Nothing, in brief, but maudlin confessionIrresponse to human aggression,Amid the precipitation, down-floatOf insubstantial manna,Lifting the faint susurrusOf his subjective hosannah.Ultimate affronts to human redundancies;Non-esteem of self-styled “his betters”Leading, as he well knew,To his finalExclusion from the world of letters.
FOR this agility chance foundHim of all men, unfitAs the red-beaked steeds ofThe Cytheræan for a chain bit.The glow of porcelainBrought no reforming senseTo his perceptionOf the social inconsequence.Thus, if her colourCame against his gaze,Tempered as ifIt were through a perfect glazeHe made no immediate applicationOf this to relation of the stateTo the individual, the month was more temperateBecause this beauty had been.. . . . . . . . . .The coral isle, the lion-coloured sandBurst in upon the porcelain revery:Impetuous troublingOf his imagery.. . . . . . . . . .Mildness, amid the neo-Neitzschean clatter,His sense of graduations,Quite out of place amidResistance to current exacerbations,Invitation, mere invitation to perceptivityGradually led him to the isolationWhich these presents placeUnder a more tolerant, perhaps, examination.By constant eliminationThe manifest universeYielded an armourAgainst utter consternation,A Minoan undulation,Seen, we admit, amid ambrosial circumstancesStrengthened him againstThe discouraging doctrine of chances,And his desire for survival,Faint in the most strenuous moods,Became an OlympianapatheinIn the presence of selected perceptions.A pale gold, in the aforesaid pattern,The unexpected palmsDestroying, certainly, the artist’s urge,Left him delighted with the imaginaryAudition of the phantasmal sea-surge,Incapable of the least utterance or composition,Emendation, conservation of the “better tradition”Refinement of medium, elimination of superfluities,August attraction or concentration.Nothing, in brief, but maudlin confessionIrresponse to human aggression,Amid the precipitation, down-floatOf insubstantial manna,Lifting the faint susurrusOf his subjective hosannah.Ultimate affronts to human redundancies;Non-esteem of self-styled “his betters”Leading, as he well knew,To his finalExclusion from the world of letters.
FOR this agility chance foundHim of all men, unfitAs the red-beaked steeds ofThe Cytheræan for a chain bit.
The glow of porcelainBrought no reforming senseTo his perceptionOf the social inconsequence.
Thus, if her colourCame against his gaze,Tempered as ifIt were through a perfect glaze
He made no immediate applicationOf this to relation of the stateTo the individual, the month was more temperateBecause this beauty had been.. . . . . . . . . .The coral isle, the lion-coloured sandBurst in upon the porcelain revery:Impetuous troublingOf his imagery.. . . . . . . . . .Mildness, amid the neo-Neitzschean clatter,His sense of graduations,Quite out of place amidResistance to current exacerbations,Invitation, mere invitation to perceptivityGradually led him to the isolationWhich these presents placeUnder a more tolerant, perhaps, examination.
By constant eliminationThe manifest universeYielded an armourAgainst utter consternation,
A Minoan undulation,Seen, we admit, amid ambrosial circumstancesStrengthened him againstThe discouraging doctrine of chances,
And his desire for survival,Faint in the most strenuous moods,Became an OlympianapatheinIn the presence of selected perceptions.
A pale gold, in the aforesaid pattern,The unexpected palmsDestroying, certainly, the artist’s urge,Left him delighted with the imaginaryAudition of the phantasmal sea-surge,
Incapable of the least utterance or composition,Emendation, conservation of the “better tradition”Refinement of medium, elimination of superfluities,August attraction or concentration.
Nothing, in brief, but maudlin confessionIrresponse to human aggression,Amid the precipitation, down-floatOf insubstantial manna,Lifting the faint susurrusOf his subjective hosannah.
Ultimate affronts to human redundancies;
Non-esteem of self-styled “his betters”Leading, as he well knew,To his finalExclusion from the world of letters.
SCATTERED MoluccasNot knowing, day to day,The first day’s end, in the next noon;The placid waterUnbroken by the Simoon;Thick foliagePlacid beneath warm suns,Tawn fore-shoresWashed in the cobalt of oblivions;Or through dawn-mistThe grey and roseOf the juridicalFlamingoes;A consciousness disjunct,Being but this overblottedSeriesOf intermittences;Coracle of Pacific voyages,The unforecasted beach:Then on an oarRead this:“I wasAnd I no more exist;Here driftedAn hedonist.”
SCATTERED MoluccasNot knowing, day to day,The first day’s end, in the next noon;The placid waterUnbroken by the Simoon;Thick foliagePlacid beneath warm suns,Tawn fore-shoresWashed in the cobalt of oblivions;Or through dawn-mistThe grey and roseOf the juridicalFlamingoes;A consciousness disjunct,Being but this overblottedSeriesOf intermittences;Coracle of Pacific voyages,The unforecasted beach:Then on an oarRead this:“I wasAnd I no more exist;Here driftedAn hedonist.”
SCATTERED MoluccasNot knowing, day to day,The first day’s end, in the next noon;The placid waterUnbroken by the Simoon;
Thick foliagePlacid beneath warm suns,Tawn fore-shoresWashed in the cobalt of oblivions;
Or through dawn-mistThe grey and roseOf the juridicalFlamingoes;
A consciousness disjunct,Being but this overblottedSeriesOf intermittences;Coracle of Pacific voyages,The unforecasted beach:Then on an oarRead this:
“I wasAnd I no more exist;Here driftedAn hedonist.”
LUINI in porcelain!The grand pianoUtters a profaneProtest with her clear soprano.The sleek head emergesFrom the gold-yellow frockAs Anadyomene in the openingPages of Reinach.Honey-red, closing the face-oval,A basket-work of braids which seem as if they wereSpun in King Minos’ hallFrom metal, or intractable amber;The face-oval beneath the glaze,Bright in its suave bounding-line, as,Beneath half-watt rays,The eyes turn topaz.
LUINI in porcelain!The grand pianoUtters a profaneProtest with her clear soprano.The sleek head emergesFrom the gold-yellow frockAs Anadyomene in the openingPages of Reinach.Honey-red, closing the face-oval,A basket-work of braids which seem as if they wereSpun in King Minos’ hallFrom metal, or intractable amber;The face-oval beneath the glaze,Bright in its suave bounding-line, as,Beneath half-watt rays,The eyes turn topaz.
LUINI in porcelain!The grand pianoUtters a profaneProtest with her clear soprano.
The sleek head emergesFrom the gold-yellow frockAs Anadyomene in the openingPages of Reinach.
Honey-red, closing the face-oval,A basket-work of braids which seem as if they wereSpun in King Minos’ hallFrom metal, or intractable amber;
The face-oval beneath the glaze,Bright in its suave bounding-line, as,Beneath half-watt rays,The eyes turn topaz.
PALACE in smoky light,Troy but a heap of smouldering boundary-stones,ANAXIFORMINGES! Aurunculeia!Hear me. Cadmus of Golden Prows!The silver mirrors catch the bright stones and flare,Dawn, to our waking, drifts in the green cool light;Dew-haze blurrs, in the grass, pale ankles moving.Beat, beat, whirr, thud, in the soft turf under the apple trees,Choros nympharum, goat-foot with the pale foot alternate;Crescent of blue-shot waters, green-gold in the shallows,A black cock crows in the sea-foam;And by the curved carved foot of the couch,claw-foot and lion head, an old man seatedSpeaking in the low drone: ...“Ityn!“Et ter flebiliter. Ityn, Ityn!“And she went toward the window and cast her down,“All the while, the while, swallows crying:“Ityn!”“ “It is Cabestan’s heart in the dish.”“ “It is Cabestan’s heart in the dish?”“ “No other taste shall change this.”And she went toward the window,the slim white stone barMaking a double arch;Firm even fingers held to the firm pale stone;Swung for a moment,and the wind out of RhodezCaught in the full of her sleeve.... the swallows crying:“Ityn! Ityn!”Actaeon....And a valley,The valley is thick with leaves, with leaves, the trees,The sunlight glitters, glitters a-top,Like a fish-scale roof,Like the church-roof in PoictiersIf it were gold.Beneath it, beneath itNot a ray, not a slivver, not a spare disk of sunlightFlaking the black, soft water;Bathing the body of nymphs, of nymphs, and Diana,Nymphs, white-gathered about her, and the air, air,Shaking, air alight with the goddessfanning their hair in the dark,Lifting, lifting and waffing:Ivory dipping in silver,Shadow’d, o’ershadow’dIvory dipping in silver,Not a splotch, not a lost shatter of sunlight.Then Actaeon: Vidal,Vidal. It is old Vidal speaking,stumbling along in the wood,Not a patch, not a lost shimmer of sunlight,the pale hair of the goddess.The dogs leap on Actaeon,“Hither, hither, Actaeon,”Spotted stag of the wood;Gold, gold, a sheaf of hair,Thick like a wheat swath,Blaze, blaze in the sun,The dogs leap on Actaeon.Stumbling, stumbling along in the wood,Muttering, muttering Ovid:“Pergusa ... pool ... pool ... Gargaphia,“Pool, pool of Salmacis.”The empty armour shakes as the cygnet moves.Thus the light rains, thus pours,e lo soleils plovil,The liquid, and rushing crystalwhirls up the bright brown sand.Ply over ply, thin glitter of water;Brook film bearing white petals(“The pines of Takasago grow with pines of Isé”)“Behold the Tree of the Visages.”The forked tips flaming as if with lotus,Ply over plyThe shallow eddying fluidbeneath the knees of the gods.Torches melt in the glareSet flame of the corner cook-stall,Blue agate casing the sky, a sputter of resin;The saffron sandal petals the narrow foot, Hymenaeus!Io Hymen, Io Hymenaee! Aurunculeia!The scarlet flower is cast on the blanch-white stone,Armaracus, Hill of Urania’s Son.Meanwhile So-Gioku:“This wind, sire, is the king’s wind,this wind is wind of the palaceShaking imperial water-jets.”And Ran-Ti, opening his collar:“This wind roars in the earth’s bag,it lays the water with rushes;“No wind is the king’s wind.Let every cow keep her calf.”“This wind is held in gauze curtains....”“No wind is the king’s....”The camel drivers sit in the turn of the stairs,look down to Ecbatan of plotted streets,“Danae! Danae!What wind is the king’s?”Smoke hangs on the stream,The peach-trees shed bright leaves in the water,Sound drifts in the evening haze,The barge scrapes at the ford.Gilt rafters above black water;three steps in an open fieldGray stone-posts leading nowhither.The Spanish poppies swim in an air of glass.Père Henri Jacques still seeks the sennin on Rokku.Polhonac,As Gyges on Thracian platter, set the feast;Cabestan, Terreus.It is Cabestan’s heart in the dish.Vidal, tracked out with dogs ... for glamour of Loba;Upon the gilded tower in EcbatanLay the god’s bride, lay everWaiting the golden rain.Et saave!But to-day, Garonne is thick like paint, beyond Dorada,The worm of the Procession bores in the soup of the crowdThe blue thin voices against the crash of the crowdEt “Salve regina.”In trellisesWound over with small flowers, beyond AdigeIn the but half-used room, thin film of images,(by Stefano)Age of unbodied gods, the vitreous fragile imagesThin as the locust’s wingHaunting the mind ... as of Guido ...Thin as the locust’s wing. The Centaur’s heelPlants in the earth-loam.
PALACE in smoky light,Troy but a heap of smouldering boundary-stones,ANAXIFORMINGES! Aurunculeia!Hear me. Cadmus of Golden Prows!The silver mirrors catch the bright stones and flare,Dawn, to our waking, drifts in the green cool light;Dew-haze blurrs, in the grass, pale ankles moving.Beat, beat, whirr, thud, in the soft turf under the apple trees,Choros nympharum, goat-foot with the pale foot alternate;Crescent of blue-shot waters, green-gold in the shallows,A black cock crows in the sea-foam;And by the curved carved foot of the couch,claw-foot and lion head, an old man seatedSpeaking in the low drone: ...“Ityn!“Et ter flebiliter. Ityn, Ityn!“And she went toward the window and cast her down,“All the while, the while, swallows crying:“Ityn!”“ “It is Cabestan’s heart in the dish.”“ “It is Cabestan’s heart in the dish?”“ “No other taste shall change this.”And she went toward the window,the slim white stone barMaking a double arch;Firm even fingers held to the firm pale stone;Swung for a moment,and the wind out of RhodezCaught in the full of her sleeve.... the swallows crying:“Ityn! Ityn!”Actaeon....And a valley,The valley is thick with leaves, with leaves, the trees,The sunlight glitters, glitters a-top,Like a fish-scale roof,Like the church-roof in PoictiersIf it were gold.Beneath it, beneath itNot a ray, not a slivver, not a spare disk of sunlightFlaking the black, soft water;Bathing the body of nymphs, of nymphs, and Diana,Nymphs, white-gathered about her, and the air, air,Shaking, air alight with the goddessfanning their hair in the dark,Lifting, lifting and waffing:Ivory dipping in silver,Shadow’d, o’ershadow’dIvory dipping in silver,Not a splotch, not a lost shatter of sunlight.Then Actaeon: Vidal,Vidal. It is old Vidal speaking,stumbling along in the wood,Not a patch, not a lost shimmer of sunlight,the pale hair of the goddess.The dogs leap on Actaeon,“Hither, hither, Actaeon,”Spotted stag of the wood;Gold, gold, a sheaf of hair,Thick like a wheat swath,Blaze, blaze in the sun,The dogs leap on Actaeon.Stumbling, stumbling along in the wood,Muttering, muttering Ovid:“Pergusa ... pool ... pool ... Gargaphia,“Pool, pool of Salmacis.”The empty armour shakes as the cygnet moves.Thus the light rains, thus pours,e lo soleils plovil,The liquid, and rushing crystalwhirls up the bright brown sand.Ply over ply, thin glitter of water;Brook film bearing white petals(“The pines of Takasago grow with pines of Isé”)“Behold the Tree of the Visages.”The forked tips flaming as if with lotus,Ply over plyThe shallow eddying fluidbeneath the knees of the gods.Torches melt in the glareSet flame of the corner cook-stall,Blue agate casing the sky, a sputter of resin;The saffron sandal petals the narrow foot, Hymenaeus!Io Hymen, Io Hymenaee! Aurunculeia!The scarlet flower is cast on the blanch-white stone,Armaracus, Hill of Urania’s Son.Meanwhile So-Gioku:“This wind, sire, is the king’s wind,this wind is wind of the palaceShaking imperial water-jets.”And Ran-Ti, opening his collar:“This wind roars in the earth’s bag,it lays the water with rushes;“No wind is the king’s wind.Let every cow keep her calf.”“This wind is held in gauze curtains....”“No wind is the king’s....”The camel drivers sit in the turn of the stairs,look down to Ecbatan of plotted streets,“Danae! Danae!What wind is the king’s?”Smoke hangs on the stream,The peach-trees shed bright leaves in the water,Sound drifts in the evening haze,The barge scrapes at the ford.Gilt rafters above black water;three steps in an open fieldGray stone-posts leading nowhither.The Spanish poppies swim in an air of glass.Père Henri Jacques still seeks the sennin on Rokku.Polhonac,As Gyges on Thracian platter, set the feast;Cabestan, Terreus.It is Cabestan’s heart in the dish.Vidal, tracked out with dogs ... for glamour of Loba;Upon the gilded tower in EcbatanLay the god’s bride, lay everWaiting the golden rain.Et saave!But to-day, Garonne is thick like paint, beyond Dorada,The worm of the Procession bores in the soup of the crowdThe blue thin voices against the crash of the crowdEt “Salve regina.”In trellisesWound over with small flowers, beyond AdigeIn the but half-used room, thin film of images,(by Stefano)Age of unbodied gods, the vitreous fragile imagesThin as the locust’s wingHaunting the mind ... as of Guido ...Thin as the locust’s wing. The Centaur’s heelPlants in the earth-loam.
PALACE in smoky light,Troy but a heap of smouldering boundary-stones,ANAXIFORMINGES! Aurunculeia!Hear me. Cadmus of Golden Prows!The silver mirrors catch the bright stones and flare,Dawn, to our waking, drifts in the green cool light;Dew-haze blurrs, in the grass, pale ankles moving.Beat, beat, whirr, thud, in the soft turf under the apple trees,Choros nympharum, goat-foot with the pale foot alternate;Crescent of blue-shot waters, green-gold in the shallows,A black cock crows in the sea-foam;
And by the curved carved foot of the couch,claw-foot and lion head, an old man seatedSpeaking in the low drone: ...“Ityn!“Et ter flebiliter. Ityn, Ityn!“And she went toward the window and cast her down,“All the while, the while, swallows crying:“Ityn!”
“ “It is Cabestan’s heart in the dish.”“ “It is Cabestan’s heart in the dish?”“ “No other taste shall change this.”
And she went toward the window,the slim white stone barMaking a double arch;Firm even fingers held to the firm pale stone;Swung for a moment,and the wind out of RhodezCaught in the full of her sleeve.... the swallows crying:“Ityn! Ityn!”
Actaeon....And a valley,The valley is thick with leaves, with leaves, the trees,The sunlight glitters, glitters a-top,Like a fish-scale roof,Like the church-roof in PoictiersIf it were gold.Beneath it, beneath itNot a ray, not a slivver, not a spare disk of sunlightFlaking the black, soft water;Bathing the body of nymphs, of nymphs, and Diana,Nymphs, white-gathered about her, and the air, air,Shaking, air alight with the goddessfanning their hair in the dark,Lifting, lifting and waffing:Ivory dipping in silver,Shadow’d, o’ershadow’d
Ivory dipping in silver,Not a splotch, not a lost shatter of sunlight.Then Actaeon: Vidal,Vidal. It is old Vidal speaking,stumbling along in the wood,Not a patch, not a lost shimmer of sunlight,the pale hair of the goddess.
The dogs leap on Actaeon,“Hither, hither, Actaeon,”Spotted stag of the wood;Gold, gold, a sheaf of hair,Thick like a wheat swath,Blaze, blaze in the sun,The dogs leap on Actaeon.
Stumbling, stumbling along in the wood,Muttering, muttering Ovid:“Pergusa ... pool ... pool ... Gargaphia,“Pool, pool of Salmacis.”The empty armour shakes as the cygnet moves.Thus the light rains, thus pours,e lo soleils plovil,The liquid, and rushing crystalwhirls up the bright brown sand.Ply over ply, thin glitter of water;Brook film bearing white petals(“The pines of Takasago grow with pines of Isé”)“Behold the Tree of the Visages.”The forked tips flaming as if with lotus,Ply over plyThe shallow eddying fluidbeneath the knees of the gods.
Torches melt in the glareSet flame of the corner cook-stall,Blue agate casing the sky, a sputter of resin;The saffron sandal petals the narrow foot, Hymenaeus!Io Hymen, Io Hymenaee! Aurunculeia!The scarlet flower is cast on the blanch-white stone,Armaracus, Hill of Urania’s Son.Meanwhile So-Gioku:“This wind, sire, is the king’s wind,this wind is wind of the palaceShaking imperial water-jets.”And Ran-Ti, opening his collar:“This wind roars in the earth’s bag,it lays the water with rushes;“No wind is the king’s wind.Let every cow keep her calf.”“This wind is held in gauze curtains....”“No wind is the king’s....”
The camel drivers sit in the turn of the stairs,look down to Ecbatan of plotted streets,“Danae! Danae!What wind is the king’s?”Smoke hangs on the stream,The peach-trees shed bright leaves in the water,Sound drifts in the evening haze,The barge scrapes at the ford.Gilt rafters above black water;three steps in an open fieldGray stone-posts leading nowhither.
The Spanish poppies swim in an air of glass.Père Henri Jacques still seeks the sennin on Rokku.Polhonac,As Gyges on Thracian platter, set the feast;Cabestan, Terreus.It is Cabestan’s heart in the dish.Vidal, tracked out with dogs ... for glamour of Loba;Upon the gilded tower in EcbatanLay the god’s bride, lay everWaiting the golden rain.Et saave!But to-day, Garonne is thick like paint, beyond Dorada,The worm of the Procession bores in the soup of the crowdThe blue thin voices against the crash of the crowdEt “Salve regina.”
In trellisesWound over with small flowers, beyond AdigeIn the but half-used room, thin film of images,(by Stefano)Age of unbodied gods, the vitreous fragile imagesThin as the locust’s wingHaunting the mind ... as of Guido ...Thin as the locust’s wing. The Centaur’s heelPlants in the earth-loam.
GREAT bulk, huge mass, thesaurus;Ecbatan, the clock ticks and fades out;The bride awaiting the god’s touch; Ecbatan,City of patterned streets; again the vision:Down in the viae stradae, toga’d the crowd, and arm’d,Rushing on populous business, and from parapetsLooked down—I looked, and thought: at NorthWas Egypt, and the celestial Nile, blue-deep, cutting low barren land,Old men and camels working the water-wheels;Measureless seas and stars,Iamblichus’ light, the souls ascending,Sparks, like a partridge covey,From the “ciocco,” brand struck in the game,“Et omniformis”:Air, fire, the pale soft light.Topaz, I manage, and three sorts of blue;but on the barb of time.The fire? always, and the vision always,Ear dull, perhaps, with the vision, flittingAnd fading at will. Weaving with points of gold,Gold-yellow, saffron ...the Roman shoe, Aurunculeia’sAnd come shuffling feet, and cries “Da nuces!“Nuces” praise and Hymenaeus “brings the girl to her man,”Titter of sound about me, alwaysand from Hesperus ...Hush of the older song: “Fades light from seacrest.“And in Lydia walks with pair’d women“Peerless among the pairs, and that once in Sardis“In satieties ...“Fades the light from the sea, and many things“Are set abroad and brought to mind of thee,”And the vinestocks lie untended, new leaves come to the shoots,North wind nips on the bough, and seas in heartToss up chill crests,And the vine stocks lie untendedAnd many things are set abroad and brought to mindOf thee, Atthis, unfruitful.The talks ran long in the night.And from Mauleon, fresh with a new earned grade,In maze of approaching rain-steps, Poicebot—The air was full of women. And Savairic MauleonGave him his land and knight’s fee, and he wed the woman.Came lust of travel on him, ofromerya;And out of England a knight with slow-lifting eyelidsLei fassa furar a del, put glamour upon her ...And left her an eight months gone.Came lust of woman upon him,Poicebot, now on North road from Spain(Sea-change, a grey in the water)And in small house by town’s edgeFound a woman, changed and familiar face,Hard night, and parting at morning.And Pieire won the singing,Song or land on the throw, Pieire de Maensac,and was dreitz homAnd had De Tierci’s wife and with the war they made,Troy in Auvergnat.While Menelaus piled up the church at portHe kept Tyndarida. Dauphin stood with de Maensac.John Borgia is bathed at last.(Clock-tick pierces the vision)Tiber, dark with the cloak, wet cat, gleaming in patches.Click of the hooves, through garbage,Clutching the greasy stone. “And the cloak floated”Slander is up betimes.But Varchi of Florence,Steeped in a different year, and pondering Brutus,ThenSIGA MAL AUTHIS DEUTERON!“Dog-eye!!” (to Alessandro)“Whether for Love of Florence,” Varchi leaves it,Saying, “I saw the man, came up with him at Venice,“I, one wanting the facts,“And no mean labour.Or for a privy spite?”Good Varchi leaves it,But: “I saw the man.Se pia?“O empia?For Lorenzaccio had thought of stroke in the open“But uncertain (for the Duke went never unguarded) ...“And would have thrown him from wall“Yet feared this might not end him, or lest Alessandro“Know not by whom death came,O si credesse“If when the foot slipped, when death came upon him,“Lest cousin Duke Alessandro think he had fallen alone“No friend to aid him in falling.”Caina attende.As beneath my feet a lake, was ice in seeming.And all of this, runs Varchi, dreamed out before handIn Perugia, caught in the star-maze by Del Carmine,Cast on a natal paper, set with an exegesis, told,All told to Alessandro, told thrice over,Who held his death for a doom.In abuleia.But Don Lorenzino“Whether for love of Florence ... but:“O si morisse, credesse caduto da se.”SIGA, SIGA!The wet cloak floats on the surface,Schiavoni, caught on the wood-barge,Gives out the afterbirth, Giovanni BorgiaTrails out no more at night, where BarabelloProds the Pope’s elephant, and gets no crown, where MozarelloTakes the Calabrian roadway, and for endingIs smothered beneath a mule,a poet’s ending,Down a stale well-hole, oh a poet’s ending. “Sanazarro“Alone out of all the court was faithful to him”For the gossip of Naples’ trouble drifts to North,Fracastor (lightning was midwife) Cotta, and Ser D’Alviano,Al poco giorno ed al gran cerchio d’ombra,Talk the talks out with Navighero,Burner of yearly Martials,(The slavelet is mourned in vain)And the next comersays “were nine wounds,“Four men, white horse with a double rider,”The hooves clink and slick on the cobbles ...Schiavoni ... the cloak floats on the water,“Sink the thing,” splash wakes Schiavoni;Tiber catching the nap, the moonlit velvet,Wet cat, gleaming in patches.“Se pia,” Varchi,“O empia, ma risoluto“E terribile deliberazione”Both sayings run in the wind,Ma si morisse!
GREAT bulk, huge mass, thesaurus;Ecbatan, the clock ticks and fades out;The bride awaiting the god’s touch; Ecbatan,City of patterned streets; again the vision:Down in the viae stradae, toga’d the crowd, and arm’d,Rushing on populous business, and from parapetsLooked down—I looked, and thought: at NorthWas Egypt, and the celestial Nile, blue-deep, cutting low barren land,Old men and camels working the water-wheels;Measureless seas and stars,Iamblichus’ light, the souls ascending,Sparks, like a partridge covey,From the “ciocco,” brand struck in the game,“Et omniformis”:Air, fire, the pale soft light.Topaz, I manage, and three sorts of blue;but on the barb of time.The fire? always, and the vision always,Ear dull, perhaps, with the vision, flittingAnd fading at will. Weaving with points of gold,Gold-yellow, saffron ...the Roman shoe, Aurunculeia’sAnd come shuffling feet, and cries “Da nuces!“Nuces” praise and Hymenaeus “brings the girl to her man,”Titter of sound about me, alwaysand from Hesperus ...Hush of the older song: “Fades light from seacrest.“And in Lydia walks with pair’d women“Peerless among the pairs, and that once in Sardis“In satieties ...“Fades the light from the sea, and many things“Are set abroad and brought to mind of thee,”And the vinestocks lie untended, new leaves come to the shoots,North wind nips on the bough, and seas in heartToss up chill crests,And the vine stocks lie untendedAnd many things are set abroad and brought to mindOf thee, Atthis, unfruitful.The talks ran long in the night.And from Mauleon, fresh with a new earned grade,In maze of approaching rain-steps, Poicebot—The air was full of women. And Savairic MauleonGave him his land and knight’s fee, and he wed the woman.Came lust of travel on him, ofromerya;And out of England a knight with slow-lifting eyelidsLei fassa furar a del, put glamour upon her ...And left her an eight months gone.Came lust of woman upon him,Poicebot, now on North road from Spain(Sea-change, a grey in the water)And in small house by town’s edgeFound a woman, changed and familiar face,Hard night, and parting at morning.And Pieire won the singing,Song or land on the throw, Pieire de Maensac,and was dreitz homAnd had De Tierci’s wife and with the war they made,Troy in Auvergnat.While Menelaus piled up the church at portHe kept Tyndarida. Dauphin stood with de Maensac.John Borgia is bathed at last.(Clock-tick pierces the vision)Tiber, dark with the cloak, wet cat, gleaming in patches.Click of the hooves, through garbage,Clutching the greasy stone. “And the cloak floated”Slander is up betimes.But Varchi of Florence,Steeped in a different year, and pondering Brutus,ThenSIGA MAL AUTHIS DEUTERON!“Dog-eye!!” (to Alessandro)“Whether for Love of Florence,” Varchi leaves it,Saying, “I saw the man, came up with him at Venice,“I, one wanting the facts,“And no mean labour.Or for a privy spite?”Good Varchi leaves it,But: “I saw the man.Se pia?“O empia?For Lorenzaccio had thought of stroke in the open“But uncertain (for the Duke went never unguarded) ...“And would have thrown him from wall“Yet feared this might not end him, or lest Alessandro“Know not by whom death came,O si credesse“If when the foot slipped, when death came upon him,“Lest cousin Duke Alessandro think he had fallen alone“No friend to aid him in falling.”Caina attende.As beneath my feet a lake, was ice in seeming.And all of this, runs Varchi, dreamed out before handIn Perugia, caught in the star-maze by Del Carmine,Cast on a natal paper, set with an exegesis, told,All told to Alessandro, told thrice over,Who held his death for a doom.In abuleia.But Don Lorenzino“Whether for love of Florence ... but:“O si morisse, credesse caduto da se.”SIGA, SIGA!The wet cloak floats on the surface,Schiavoni, caught on the wood-barge,Gives out the afterbirth, Giovanni BorgiaTrails out no more at night, where BarabelloProds the Pope’s elephant, and gets no crown, where MozarelloTakes the Calabrian roadway, and for endingIs smothered beneath a mule,a poet’s ending,Down a stale well-hole, oh a poet’s ending. “Sanazarro“Alone out of all the court was faithful to him”For the gossip of Naples’ trouble drifts to North,Fracastor (lightning was midwife) Cotta, and Ser D’Alviano,Al poco giorno ed al gran cerchio d’ombra,Talk the talks out with Navighero,Burner of yearly Martials,(The slavelet is mourned in vain)And the next comersays “were nine wounds,“Four men, white horse with a double rider,”The hooves clink and slick on the cobbles ...Schiavoni ... the cloak floats on the water,“Sink the thing,” splash wakes Schiavoni;Tiber catching the nap, the moonlit velvet,Wet cat, gleaming in patches.“Se pia,” Varchi,“O empia, ma risoluto“E terribile deliberazione”Both sayings run in the wind,Ma si morisse!
GREAT bulk, huge mass, thesaurus;Ecbatan, the clock ticks and fades out;The bride awaiting the god’s touch; Ecbatan,City of patterned streets; again the vision:Down in the viae stradae, toga’d the crowd, and arm’d,Rushing on populous business, and from parapetsLooked down—I looked, and thought: at NorthWas Egypt, and the celestial Nile, blue-deep, cutting low barren land,Old men and camels working the water-wheels;Measureless seas and stars,Iamblichus’ light, the souls ascending,Sparks, like a partridge covey,From the “ciocco,” brand struck in the game,“Et omniformis”:Air, fire, the pale soft light.Topaz, I manage, and three sorts of blue;but on the barb of time.The fire? always, and the vision always,Ear dull, perhaps, with the vision, flittingAnd fading at will. Weaving with points of gold,Gold-yellow, saffron ...the Roman shoe, Aurunculeia’sAnd come shuffling feet, and cries “Da nuces!“Nuces” praise and Hymenaeus “brings the girl to her man,”Titter of sound about me, alwaysand from Hesperus ...Hush of the older song: “Fades light from seacrest.
“And in Lydia walks with pair’d women“Peerless among the pairs, and that once in Sardis“In satieties ...“Fades the light from the sea, and many things“Are set abroad and brought to mind of thee,”And the vinestocks lie untended, new leaves come to the shoots,North wind nips on the bough, and seas in heartToss up chill crests,And the vine stocks lie untendedAnd many things are set abroad and brought to mindOf thee, Atthis, unfruitful.The talks ran long in the night.
And from Mauleon, fresh with a new earned grade,In maze of approaching rain-steps, Poicebot—The air was full of women. And Savairic MauleonGave him his land and knight’s fee, and he wed the woman.Came lust of travel on him, ofromerya;And out of England a knight with slow-lifting eyelidsLei fassa furar a del, put glamour upon her ...And left her an eight months gone.Came lust of woman upon him,Poicebot, now on North road from Spain(Sea-change, a grey in the water)And in small house by town’s edgeFound a woman, changed and familiar face,Hard night, and parting at morning.And Pieire won the singing,Song or land on the throw, Pieire de Maensac,and was dreitz homAnd had De Tierci’s wife and with the war they made,Troy in Auvergnat.
While Menelaus piled up the church at portHe kept Tyndarida. Dauphin stood with de Maensac.John Borgia is bathed at last.(Clock-tick pierces the vision)Tiber, dark with the cloak, wet cat, gleaming in patches.Click of the hooves, through garbage,Clutching the greasy stone. “And the cloak floated”Slander is up betimes.But Varchi of Florence,Steeped in a different year, and pondering Brutus,ThenSIGA MAL AUTHIS DEUTERON!“Dog-eye!!” (to Alessandro)“Whether for Love of Florence,” Varchi leaves it,Saying, “I saw the man, came up with him at Venice,“I, one wanting the facts,“And no mean labour.Or for a privy spite?”Good Varchi leaves it,But: “I saw the man.Se pia?“O empia?For Lorenzaccio had thought of stroke in the open“But uncertain (for the Duke went never unguarded) ...“And would have thrown him from wall“Yet feared this might not end him, or lest Alessandro“Know not by whom death came,O si credesse“If when the foot slipped, when death came upon him,“Lest cousin Duke Alessandro think he had fallen alone“No friend to aid him in falling.”Caina attende.As beneath my feet a lake, was ice in seeming.
And all of this, runs Varchi, dreamed out before handIn Perugia, caught in the star-maze by Del Carmine,Cast on a natal paper, set with an exegesis, told,All told to Alessandro, told thrice over,Who held his death for a doom.In abuleia.But Don Lorenzino“Whether for love of Florence ... but:“O si morisse, credesse caduto da se.”SIGA, SIGA!The wet cloak floats on the surface,Schiavoni, caught on the wood-barge,Gives out the afterbirth, Giovanni BorgiaTrails out no more at night, where BarabelloProds the Pope’s elephant, and gets no crown, where MozarelloTakes the Calabrian roadway, and for endingIs smothered beneath a mule,a poet’s ending,Down a stale well-hole, oh a poet’s ending. “Sanazarro“Alone out of all the court was faithful to him”For the gossip of Naples’ trouble drifts to North,Fracastor (lightning was midwife) Cotta, and Ser D’Alviano,Al poco giorno ed al gran cerchio d’ombra,Talk the talks out with Navighero,Burner of yearly Martials,(The slavelet is mourned in vain)And the next comersays “were nine wounds,“Four men, white horse with a double rider,”The hooves clink and slick on the cobbles ...Schiavoni ... the cloak floats on the water,“Sink the thing,” splash wakes Schiavoni;Tiber catching the nap, the moonlit velvet,Wet cat, gleaming in patches.“Se pia,” Varchi,“O empia, ma risoluto“E terribile deliberazione”Both sayings run in the wind,Ma si morisse!
THE tale of thy deeds Odysseus!” and TolosanGround rents, sold by Guillaume, ninth duke of Aquitaine;Till Louis is wed with Eleanor; the wheel ...(“Conrad, the wheel turns and in the end turns ill”)And Acre and boy’s love ... for her uncle wasCommandant at Acre, she was pleased with him;And Louis, French King, was jealous of days unsharedThis pair had had together in years gone;And he drives on for Zion, as “God wills”To find, in six weeks time, the Queen’s scarf isTwisted a-top the casque of Saladin.“For Sandbrueil’s ransom.” But the pouch-mouths add,“She went out hunting, and the palm-tufts“Give shade above mottled columns, and she rode back late,“Late, latish, yet perhaps it was not too late.”Then France again, and to be rid of herTo brush his antlers: Poictiers, Aquitaine!And Adelaide Castilla wears the crown.Eleanor down water-butt, dethroned, debased, unqueen’d.Unqueen’d five rare long months,And face sand-red, pitch gait, Harry Plantagenet,The sputter in place of speech,But King, about to be, King Louis! takes a queen.“E quand lo reis Louis lo entenditmout er fasché”And yet Gisors, in six years thence,Was Marguerite’s. And HarryjovenIn pledge for all his life and life of all his heirsShall have Gisors and Vexis and Neauphal, Neufchastel;But if no issue, Gisors shall revertAnd Vexis and Neufchastel and Neauphal to the French crown.“Si tuit li dol el plor el marrimenDel monwere set together they would seem but lightAgainst the death of the young English King,Harry the Young is dead and all men mourn, a song,Mourn all good courtiers, fighters, cantadors.”And still Old Harry keeps grip on GisorsAnd Neufchastel and Neauphal and Vexis;And two years war, and never two years go bybut come new forays, and “The wheel“Turns, Conrad, turns, and in the end toward ill.”And Richard and Alix span the gap, Gisors,And Eleanor and Richard face the King,For the fourth family time PlantagenetFaces his dam and whelps, ... and holds Gisors,Now Alix’ dowry, against Philippe-Auguste(Louis’ by Adelaide, wood-lost, then crowned at Etampe)And never two years sans war.And Zion stillBleating away to Eastward, the lost lamb,Damned city (was only Frederic knewThe true worth of, and patched with Malek KamelThe sane and sensible peace to bait the worldAnd set all camps disgruntled with all leaders.“Damn’d atheists!” alike Mahomet growls,And Christ grutches more sullen for Sicilian senseThan does Mahound on Malek.)The bright coatIs more to the era, and in Messina’s beach-wayDes Barres and Richard split the reed-lancesAnd the coat is torn.(Moving in heavy air: Henry and Saladin.)(The serpent coils in the crowd.)The letters run: Tancred to Richard:That the French King isMore against thee, than is his will to meGood and in faith; and moves against your safety.Richard to Tancred:That our pact stands firm,And, for these slanders, that I think you lie.Proofs, and in writing:And if Bourgogne say they were notDeliver’d by hand and his,Let him move sword against me and my word.Richard to Philip: silence, with a tone.Richard to Flanders: the subjoined and precedent.Philip a silence; and then, “Lies and turned lies“For that he will fail Alix“Affianced, and Sister to Ourself.”Richard: “My father’s bed-piece! A Plantagenet“Mewls on the covers, with a nose like his, already.”Then:In the NameOf Father and of Son Triune and IndivisiblePhilip of France by Goddes GraceTo all men presents that our noble brotherRichard of England engaged by mutual oath(a sacred covenant applicable to both)Neednotwed Alix but whomso he chooseWe cede him Gisors Neauphal and VexisAnd to the heirs male of his houseCahors and Querci Richard’s the abbeys oursOf Figeac and Souillac St. Gilles left still in peaceAlix returns to France.Made in Messina inThe year 1190 of the Incarnation of the Word.Reed lances broken, a cloak torn by Des BarresDo turn King Richard from the holy wars.And “God aid Conrad“For man’s aid comes slow,” Aye tarries upon the road,En Bertrans cantat.And before all thisBy Correze, MalemortA young man walks, at church with galleried porchBy river-marsh, pacing,He was come from Ventadorn; and Eleanor turning on thirty years,Domna jauzionda, and he says to her“My lady of Ventadorn“Is shut by Eblis in, and will not hawk nor hunt“Nor get her free in the air,nor watch fish rise to bait“Nor the glare-wing’d flies alight in the creek’s edge“Save in my absence, Madame.‘Que la lauzeta mover,’“Send word, I ask you, to Eblis,you have seen that maker“And finder of songs, so far afield as this“That he may free her,who sheds such light in the air.”
THE tale of thy deeds Odysseus!” and TolosanGround rents, sold by Guillaume, ninth duke of Aquitaine;Till Louis is wed with Eleanor; the wheel ...(“Conrad, the wheel turns and in the end turns ill”)And Acre and boy’s love ... for her uncle wasCommandant at Acre, she was pleased with him;And Louis, French King, was jealous of days unsharedThis pair had had together in years gone;And he drives on for Zion, as “God wills”To find, in six weeks time, the Queen’s scarf isTwisted a-top the casque of Saladin.“For Sandbrueil’s ransom.” But the pouch-mouths add,“She went out hunting, and the palm-tufts“Give shade above mottled columns, and she rode back late,“Late, latish, yet perhaps it was not too late.”Then France again, and to be rid of herTo brush his antlers: Poictiers, Aquitaine!And Adelaide Castilla wears the crown.Eleanor down water-butt, dethroned, debased, unqueen’d.Unqueen’d five rare long months,And face sand-red, pitch gait, Harry Plantagenet,The sputter in place of speech,But King, about to be, King Louis! takes a queen.“E quand lo reis Louis lo entenditmout er fasché”And yet Gisors, in six years thence,Was Marguerite’s. And HarryjovenIn pledge for all his life and life of all his heirsShall have Gisors and Vexis and Neauphal, Neufchastel;But if no issue, Gisors shall revertAnd Vexis and Neufchastel and Neauphal to the French crown.“Si tuit li dol el plor el marrimenDel monwere set together they would seem but lightAgainst the death of the young English King,Harry the Young is dead and all men mourn, a song,Mourn all good courtiers, fighters, cantadors.”And still Old Harry keeps grip on GisorsAnd Neufchastel and Neauphal and Vexis;And two years war, and never two years go bybut come new forays, and “The wheel“Turns, Conrad, turns, and in the end toward ill.”And Richard and Alix span the gap, Gisors,And Eleanor and Richard face the King,For the fourth family time PlantagenetFaces his dam and whelps, ... and holds Gisors,Now Alix’ dowry, against Philippe-Auguste(Louis’ by Adelaide, wood-lost, then crowned at Etampe)And never two years sans war.And Zion stillBleating away to Eastward, the lost lamb,Damned city (was only Frederic knewThe true worth of, and patched with Malek KamelThe sane and sensible peace to bait the worldAnd set all camps disgruntled with all leaders.“Damn’d atheists!” alike Mahomet growls,And Christ grutches more sullen for Sicilian senseThan does Mahound on Malek.)The bright coatIs more to the era, and in Messina’s beach-wayDes Barres and Richard split the reed-lancesAnd the coat is torn.(Moving in heavy air: Henry and Saladin.)(The serpent coils in the crowd.)The letters run: Tancred to Richard:That the French King isMore against thee, than is his will to meGood and in faith; and moves against your safety.Richard to Tancred:That our pact stands firm,And, for these slanders, that I think you lie.Proofs, and in writing:And if Bourgogne say they were notDeliver’d by hand and his,Let him move sword against me and my word.Richard to Philip: silence, with a tone.Richard to Flanders: the subjoined and precedent.Philip a silence; and then, “Lies and turned lies“For that he will fail Alix“Affianced, and Sister to Ourself.”Richard: “My father’s bed-piece! A Plantagenet“Mewls on the covers, with a nose like his, already.”Then:In the NameOf Father and of Son Triune and IndivisiblePhilip of France by Goddes GraceTo all men presents that our noble brotherRichard of England engaged by mutual oath(a sacred covenant applicable to both)Neednotwed Alix but whomso he chooseWe cede him Gisors Neauphal and VexisAnd to the heirs male of his houseCahors and Querci Richard’s the abbeys oursOf Figeac and Souillac St. Gilles left still in peaceAlix returns to France.Made in Messina inThe year 1190 of the Incarnation of the Word.Reed lances broken, a cloak torn by Des BarresDo turn King Richard from the holy wars.And “God aid Conrad“For man’s aid comes slow,” Aye tarries upon the road,En Bertrans cantat.And before all thisBy Correze, MalemortA young man walks, at church with galleried porchBy river-marsh, pacing,He was come from Ventadorn; and Eleanor turning on thirty years,Domna jauzionda, and he says to her“My lady of Ventadorn“Is shut by Eblis in, and will not hawk nor hunt“Nor get her free in the air,nor watch fish rise to bait“Nor the glare-wing’d flies alight in the creek’s edge“Save in my absence, Madame.‘Que la lauzeta mover,’“Send word, I ask you, to Eblis,you have seen that maker“And finder of songs, so far afield as this“That he may free her,who sheds such light in the air.”
THE tale of thy deeds Odysseus!” and TolosanGround rents, sold by Guillaume, ninth duke of Aquitaine;Till Louis is wed with Eleanor; the wheel ...(“Conrad, the wheel turns and in the end turns ill”)And Acre and boy’s love ... for her uncle wasCommandant at Acre, she was pleased with him;And Louis, French King, was jealous of days unsharedThis pair had had together in years gone;And he drives on for Zion, as “God wills”To find, in six weeks time, the Queen’s scarf isTwisted a-top the casque of Saladin.“For Sandbrueil’s ransom.” But the pouch-mouths add,“She went out hunting, and the palm-tufts“Give shade above mottled columns, and she rode back late,“Late, latish, yet perhaps it was not too late.”Then France again, and to be rid of herTo brush his antlers: Poictiers, Aquitaine!And Adelaide Castilla wears the crown.Eleanor down water-butt, dethroned, debased, unqueen’d.Unqueen’d five rare long months,And face sand-red, pitch gait, Harry Plantagenet,The sputter in place of speech,But King, about to be, King Louis! takes a queen.“E quand lo reis Louis lo entenditmout er fasché”And yet Gisors, in six years thence,Was Marguerite’s. And HarryjovenIn pledge for all his life and life of all his heirsShall have Gisors and Vexis and Neauphal, Neufchastel;But if no issue, Gisors shall revertAnd Vexis and Neufchastel and Neauphal to the French crown.“Si tuit li dol el plor el marrimenDel monwere set together they would seem but lightAgainst the death of the young English King,Harry the Young is dead and all men mourn, a song,Mourn all good courtiers, fighters, cantadors.”And still Old Harry keeps grip on GisorsAnd Neufchastel and Neauphal and Vexis;And two years war, and never two years go bybut come new forays, and “The wheel“Turns, Conrad, turns, and in the end toward ill.”And Richard and Alix span the gap, Gisors,And Eleanor and Richard face the King,For the fourth family time PlantagenetFaces his dam and whelps, ... and holds Gisors,Now Alix’ dowry, against Philippe-Auguste(Louis’ by Adelaide, wood-lost, then crowned at Etampe)And never two years sans war.And Zion stillBleating away to Eastward, the lost lamb,Damned city (was only Frederic knewThe true worth of, and patched with Malek KamelThe sane and sensible peace to bait the worldAnd set all camps disgruntled with all leaders.“Damn’d atheists!” alike Mahomet growls,And Christ grutches more sullen for Sicilian senseThan does Mahound on Malek.)The bright coatIs more to the era, and in Messina’s beach-wayDes Barres and Richard split the reed-lancesAnd the coat is torn.(Moving in heavy air: Henry and Saladin.)(The serpent coils in the crowd.)The letters run: Tancred to Richard:
That the French King isMore against thee, than is his will to meGood and in faith; and moves against your safety.
Richard to Tancred:
That our pact stands firm,And, for these slanders, that I think you lie.
Proofs, and in writing:
And if Bourgogne say they were notDeliver’d by hand and his,Let him move sword against me and my word.
Richard to Philip: silence, with a tone.
Richard to Flanders: the subjoined and precedent.
Philip a silence; and then, “Lies and turned lies“For that he will fail Alix“Affianced, and Sister to Ourself.”Richard: “My father’s bed-piece! A Plantagenet“Mewls on the covers, with a nose like his, already.”
Then:
In the NameOf Father and of Son Triune and IndivisiblePhilip of France by Goddes GraceTo all men presents that our noble brotherRichard of England engaged by mutual oath(a sacred covenant applicable to both)Neednotwed Alix but whomso he chooseWe cede him Gisors Neauphal and VexisAnd to the heirs male of his houseCahors and Querci Richard’s the abbeys oursOf Figeac and Souillac St. Gilles left still in peaceAlix returns to France.Made in Messina inThe year 1190 of the Incarnation of the Word.
Reed lances broken, a cloak torn by Des BarresDo turn King Richard from the holy wars.And “God aid Conrad“For man’s aid comes slow,” Aye tarries upon the road,En Bertrans cantat.
And before all thisBy Correze, MalemortA young man walks, at church with galleried porchBy river-marsh, pacing,He was come from Ventadorn; and Eleanor turning on thirty years,Domna jauzionda, and he says to her“My lady of Ventadorn“Is shut by Eblis in, and will not hawk nor hunt“Nor get her free in the air,nor watch fish rise to bait“Nor the glare-wing’d flies alight in the creek’s edge“Save in my absence, Madame.‘Que la lauzeta mover,’“Send word, I ask you, to Eblis,you have seen that maker“And finder of songs, so far afield as this“That he may free her,who sheds such light in the air.”
ELEANOR (she spoiled in a British climate)‘Ελανδρος and Ελέπτολις, and poor old Homerblind, blind as a bat,Ear, ear for the sea-surge—; rattle of old men’s voices;And then the phantom Rome, marble narrow for seats“Si pulvis nullus....”In chatter above the circus, “Nullum excute tamen.”Then: file and candles, e li mestiers ecoutes;Scene—for the battle only,—but still scene,Pennons and standards y cavals armatz,Not mere succession of strokes, sightless narration,To Dante’s “ciocco,” the brand struck in the game.Un peu moisi, plancher plus bas que le jardin.Contre le lambris, fauteuil de paille,Un vieux piano, et sous le baromètre ...The old men’s voices—beneath the columns of false marble,And the walls tinted discreet, the modish, darkish green-blue,Discreeter gilding, and the panelled woodNot present, but suggested, for the leasehold isTouched with an imprecision ... about three squares;The house a shade too solid, and the artA shade off action, paintings a shade too thick.And the great domed head,con gli occhi onesti e tardiMoves before me, phantom with weighted motion,Grave incessu, drinking the tone of things,And the old voice lifts itselfweaving an endless sentence.We also made ghostly visits, and the stairThat knew us, found us again on the turn of it,Knocking at empty rooms, seeking a buried beauty;And the sun-tanned gracious and well-formed fingersLift no latch of bent bronze, no Empire handleTwists for the knocker’s fall; no voice to answer.A strange concierge, in place of the gouty-footed.Sceptic against all this one seeks the living,Stubborn against the fact. The wilted flowersBrushed out a seven year since, of no effect.Damn the partition! Paper, dark brown and stretched,Flimsy and damned partition.Ione, dead the long year,My lintel, and Liu Ch’e’s lintel.Time blacked out with the rubber.The Elysée carries a name onAnd the bus behind me gives me a date for peg;Low ceiling and the Erard and silver,These are in “time.” Four chairs, the bow-front dresser,The pannier of the desk, cloth top sunk in.“Beer-bottle on the statue’s pediment!“That, Fritz, is the era, to-day against the past,“Contemporary.” And the passion endures.Against their action, aromas; rooms, against chronicles.Smaragdos, chrysolitos, De Gama wore striped pants in AfricaAnd “Mountains of the sea gave birth to troops,”Le vieux commode en acajou:beer bottles of various strata.But is she as dead as Tyro? In seven years?Έλέναυς, έλανδρος, έλέπτολις,The sea runs in the beach-groove, shaking the floated pebbles,Eleanor!The scarlet curtain throws a less scarlet shadow;Lamplight at Buovilla, e quel remir,And all that dayNicea moved before meAnd the cold gray air troubled her notFor all her naked beauty, bit not the tropic skin,And the long slender feet lit on the curb’s margeAnd her moving height went before me,We alone having being.And all that day, another day:Thin husks I had known as men,Dry casques of departed locustsspeaking a shell of speech ...Propped between chairs and table ...Words like the locust-shells, moved by no inner being,A dryness calling for death.Another day, between walls of a sham Mycenian,“Toc” sphinxes, sham-Memphis columns,And beneath the jazz a cortex, a stiffness or stillness;The older shell, varnished to lemon colour,Brown-yellow wood, and the no colour plaster,Dry professorial talk ...now stilling the ill beat music,House expulsed by this house, but not extinguished.Square even shoulders and the satin skin,Gone cheeks of the dancing woman,Still the old dead dry talk, gassed outIt is ten years gone, makes stiff about her a glass,A petrification of air.The old room of the tawdry class asserts itself.The young men, never!Only the husk of talk.O voi che siete in piccioletta barca,Dido choked up with sobs for her SicheusLies heavy in my arms, dead weightDrowning with tears, new Eros,And the life goes on, mooning upon bare hills;Flame leaps from the hand, the rain is listless,Yet drinks the thirst from our lips,solid as echo,Passion to breed a form in shimmer of rain-blurr;But Eros drowned, drowned, heavy-half dead with tearsFor dead Sicheus.Life to make mock of motion:For the husks, before me, move,The words rattle: shells given out by shells.The live man, out of lands and prisons,shakes the dry pods,Probes for old wills and friendships, and the big locust-casquesBend to the tawdry table,Lift up their spoons to mouths, put forks in cutlets,And make sound like the sound of voices.LorenzaccioBeing more live than they, more full of flames and voices.Ma si morisse!Credesse caduto da se, ma si morisse.And the tall indifference moves,a more living shell,Drift in the air of fate, dry phantom, but intact,O Alessandro, chief and thrice warned, watcher,Eternal watcher of things,Of things, of men, of passions.Eyes floating in dry, dark air;E biondo, with glass-gray iris, with an even side-fall of hairThe stiff, still features.
ELEANOR (she spoiled in a British climate)‘Ελανδρος and Ελέπτολις, and poor old Homerblind, blind as a bat,Ear, ear for the sea-surge—; rattle of old men’s voices;And then the phantom Rome, marble narrow for seats“Si pulvis nullus....”In chatter above the circus, “Nullum excute tamen.”Then: file and candles, e li mestiers ecoutes;Scene—for the battle only,—but still scene,Pennons and standards y cavals armatz,Not mere succession of strokes, sightless narration,To Dante’s “ciocco,” the brand struck in the game.Un peu moisi, plancher plus bas que le jardin.Contre le lambris, fauteuil de paille,Un vieux piano, et sous le baromètre ...The old men’s voices—beneath the columns of false marble,And the walls tinted discreet, the modish, darkish green-blue,Discreeter gilding, and the panelled woodNot present, but suggested, for the leasehold isTouched with an imprecision ... about three squares;The house a shade too solid, and the artA shade off action, paintings a shade too thick.And the great domed head,con gli occhi onesti e tardiMoves before me, phantom with weighted motion,Grave incessu, drinking the tone of things,And the old voice lifts itselfweaving an endless sentence.We also made ghostly visits, and the stairThat knew us, found us again on the turn of it,Knocking at empty rooms, seeking a buried beauty;And the sun-tanned gracious and well-formed fingersLift no latch of bent bronze, no Empire handleTwists for the knocker’s fall; no voice to answer.A strange concierge, in place of the gouty-footed.Sceptic against all this one seeks the living,Stubborn against the fact. The wilted flowersBrushed out a seven year since, of no effect.Damn the partition! Paper, dark brown and stretched,Flimsy and damned partition.Ione, dead the long year,My lintel, and Liu Ch’e’s lintel.Time blacked out with the rubber.The Elysée carries a name onAnd the bus behind me gives me a date for peg;Low ceiling and the Erard and silver,These are in “time.” Four chairs, the bow-front dresser,The pannier of the desk, cloth top sunk in.“Beer-bottle on the statue’s pediment!“That, Fritz, is the era, to-day against the past,“Contemporary.” And the passion endures.Against their action, aromas; rooms, against chronicles.Smaragdos, chrysolitos, De Gama wore striped pants in AfricaAnd “Mountains of the sea gave birth to troops,”Le vieux commode en acajou:beer bottles of various strata.But is she as dead as Tyro? In seven years?Έλέναυς, έλανδρος, έλέπτολις,The sea runs in the beach-groove, shaking the floated pebbles,Eleanor!The scarlet curtain throws a less scarlet shadow;Lamplight at Buovilla, e quel remir,And all that dayNicea moved before meAnd the cold gray air troubled her notFor all her naked beauty, bit not the tropic skin,And the long slender feet lit on the curb’s margeAnd her moving height went before me,We alone having being.And all that day, another day:Thin husks I had known as men,Dry casques of departed locustsspeaking a shell of speech ...Propped between chairs and table ...Words like the locust-shells, moved by no inner being,A dryness calling for death.Another day, between walls of a sham Mycenian,“Toc” sphinxes, sham-Memphis columns,And beneath the jazz a cortex, a stiffness or stillness;The older shell, varnished to lemon colour,Brown-yellow wood, and the no colour plaster,Dry professorial talk ...now stilling the ill beat music,House expulsed by this house, but not extinguished.Square even shoulders and the satin skin,Gone cheeks of the dancing woman,Still the old dead dry talk, gassed outIt is ten years gone, makes stiff about her a glass,A petrification of air.The old room of the tawdry class asserts itself.The young men, never!Only the husk of talk.O voi che siete in piccioletta barca,Dido choked up with sobs for her SicheusLies heavy in my arms, dead weightDrowning with tears, new Eros,And the life goes on, mooning upon bare hills;Flame leaps from the hand, the rain is listless,Yet drinks the thirst from our lips,solid as echo,Passion to breed a form in shimmer of rain-blurr;But Eros drowned, drowned, heavy-half dead with tearsFor dead Sicheus.Life to make mock of motion:For the husks, before me, move,The words rattle: shells given out by shells.The live man, out of lands and prisons,shakes the dry pods,Probes for old wills and friendships, and the big locust-casquesBend to the tawdry table,Lift up their spoons to mouths, put forks in cutlets,And make sound like the sound of voices.LorenzaccioBeing more live than they, more full of flames and voices.Ma si morisse!Credesse caduto da se, ma si morisse.And the tall indifference moves,a more living shell,Drift in the air of fate, dry phantom, but intact,O Alessandro, chief and thrice warned, watcher,Eternal watcher of things,Of things, of men, of passions.Eyes floating in dry, dark air;E biondo, with glass-gray iris, with an even side-fall of hairThe stiff, still features.
ELEANOR (she spoiled in a British climate)‘Ελανδρος and Ελέπτολις, and poor old Homerblind, blind as a bat,Ear, ear for the sea-surge—; rattle of old men’s voices;And then the phantom Rome, marble narrow for seats“Si pulvis nullus....”In chatter above the circus, “Nullum excute tamen.”Then: file and candles, e li mestiers ecoutes;Scene—for the battle only,—but still scene,Pennons and standards y cavals armatz,Not mere succession of strokes, sightless narration,To Dante’s “ciocco,” the brand struck in the game.Un peu moisi, plancher plus bas que le jardin.Contre le lambris, fauteuil de paille,Un vieux piano, et sous le baromètre ...The old men’s voices—beneath the columns of false marble,And the walls tinted discreet, the modish, darkish green-blue,Discreeter gilding, and the panelled woodNot present, but suggested, for the leasehold isTouched with an imprecision ... about three squares;The house a shade too solid, and the artA shade off action, paintings a shade too thick.And the great domed head,con gli occhi onesti e tardiMoves before me, phantom with weighted motion,Grave incessu, drinking the tone of things,And the old voice lifts itselfweaving an endless sentence.We also made ghostly visits, and the stairThat knew us, found us again on the turn of it,Knocking at empty rooms, seeking a buried beauty;And the sun-tanned gracious and well-formed fingersLift no latch of bent bronze, no Empire handleTwists for the knocker’s fall; no voice to answer.A strange concierge, in place of the gouty-footed.Sceptic against all this one seeks the living,Stubborn against the fact. The wilted flowersBrushed out a seven year since, of no effect.Damn the partition! Paper, dark brown and stretched,Flimsy and damned partition.Ione, dead the long year,My lintel, and Liu Ch’e’s lintel.Time blacked out with the rubber.The Elysée carries a name onAnd the bus behind me gives me a date for peg;Low ceiling and the Erard and silver,These are in “time.” Four chairs, the bow-front dresser,The pannier of the desk, cloth top sunk in.“Beer-bottle on the statue’s pediment!“That, Fritz, is the era, to-day against the past,“Contemporary.” And the passion endures.Against their action, aromas; rooms, against chronicles.Smaragdos, chrysolitos, De Gama wore striped pants in AfricaAnd “Mountains of the sea gave birth to troops,”
Le vieux commode en acajou:beer bottles of various strata.But is she as dead as Tyro? In seven years?Έλέναυς, έλανδρος, έλέπτολις,The sea runs in the beach-groove, shaking the floated pebbles,Eleanor!The scarlet curtain throws a less scarlet shadow;Lamplight at Buovilla, e quel remir,And all that dayNicea moved before meAnd the cold gray air troubled her notFor all her naked beauty, bit not the tropic skin,And the long slender feet lit on the curb’s margeAnd her moving height went before me,We alone having being.
And all that day, another day:Thin husks I had known as men,Dry casques of departed locustsspeaking a shell of speech ...Propped between chairs and table ...Words like the locust-shells, moved by no inner being,A dryness calling for death.Another day, between walls of a sham Mycenian,“Toc” sphinxes, sham-Memphis columns,And beneath the jazz a cortex, a stiffness or stillness;The older shell, varnished to lemon colour,Brown-yellow wood, and the no colour plaster,Dry professorial talk ...now stilling the ill beat music,House expulsed by this house, but not extinguished.Square even shoulders and the satin skin,Gone cheeks of the dancing woman,Still the old dead dry talk, gassed outIt is ten years gone, makes stiff about her a glass,A petrification of air.The old room of the tawdry class asserts itself.The young men, never!Only the husk of talk.O voi che siete in piccioletta barca,Dido choked up with sobs for her SicheusLies heavy in my arms, dead weightDrowning with tears, new Eros,And the life goes on, mooning upon bare hills;Flame leaps from the hand, the rain is listless,Yet drinks the thirst from our lips,solid as echo,Passion to breed a form in shimmer of rain-blurr;But Eros drowned, drowned, heavy-half dead with tearsFor dead Sicheus.Life to make mock of motion:For the husks, before me, move,The words rattle: shells given out by shells.
The live man, out of lands and prisons,shakes the dry pods,Probes for old wills and friendships, and the big locust-casquesBend to the tawdry table,Lift up their spoons to mouths, put forks in cutlets,And make sound like the sound of voices.LorenzaccioBeing more live than they, more full of flames and voices.Ma si morisse!Credesse caduto da se, ma si morisse.And the tall indifference moves,a more living shell,Drift in the air of fate, dry phantom, but intact,O Alessandro, chief and thrice warned, watcher,Eternal watcher of things,Of things, of men, of passions.Eyes floating in dry, dark air;E biondo, with glass-gray iris, with an even side-fall of hairThe stiff, still features.