Part 1

PROVENÇA

POEMS SELECTED FROM PERSONAE, EXULTATIONS, AND CANZONIERE OF EZRA POUND

[Illustration: SCIRE · QVOD SCIENDVM]

BOSTON SMALL, MAYNARD AND COMPANY PUBLISHERS

_Copyright, 1910_, BY EZRA POUND

THE UNIVERSITY PRESS, CAMBRIDGE, U.S.A.

CONTENTS

PERSONAE LA FRAISNE 5 CINO 7 NA AUDIART 9 VILLONAUD FOR THIS YULE 11 A VILLONAUD, BALLAD OF THE GIBBET 12 MESMERISM 14 FAMAM LIBROSQUE CANO 15 IN TEMPORE SENECTUTIS 17 CAMARADERIE 18 FOR E. McC. 19 BALLAD FOR GLOOM 20 AT THE HEART O’ ME 21 THE TREE 22 AN IDYL FOR GLAUCUS 22 MARVOIL 26 IN THE OLD AGE OF THE SOUL 28 REVOLT AGAINST THE CREPUSCULAR SPIRIT IN MODERN POETRY 28 AND THUS IN NINEVEH 30 THE WHITE STAG 31 PICCADILLY 31

EXULTATIONS NIGHT LITANY 37 SESTINA: ALTAFORTE 39 BALLAD OF THE GOODLY FERE 41 PORTRAIT 43 THE EYES 43 NILS LYKKE 44 “FAIR HELENA” BY RACKHAM 45 GREEK EPIGRAM 45 HISTRION 46 PARACELSUS IN EXCELSIS 46 A SONG OF THE VIRGIN MOTHER 47 SONG 48 PLANH FOR THE YOUNG ENGLISH KING 49 ALBA INNOMINATA 50 LAUDANTES 52 PLANH 56

CANZONIERE OCTAVE 63 SONNET IN TENZONE 63 SONNET 64 CANZON: THE YEARLY SLAIN 64 CANZON: THE SPEAR 67 CANZON 69 CANZON: OF INCENSE 71 CANZONE: OF ANGELS 73 SONNET: CHI È QUESTA? 75 OF GRACE 76 CANZON: THE VISION 76 TO OUR LADY OF VICARIOUS ATONEM 79 EPILOGUE 80 NOTES 81

PERSONAE

“_Make-strong old dreams lest this our world lose heart._”

TO MARY MOORE

LA FRAISNE[1]

SCENE: _The Ash Wood of Malvern_.

For I was a gaunt, grave councillor Being in all things wise, and very old, But I have put aside this folly and the cold That old age weareth for a cloak.

I was quite strong—at least they said so— The young men at the sword-play; But I have put aside this folly, being gay In another fashion that more suiteth me.

I have curled mid the boles of the ash wood, I have hidden my face where the oak Spread his leaves over me, and the yoke Of the old ways of men have I cast aside.

By the still pool of Mar-nan-otha Have I found me a bride That was a dog-wood tree some syne. She hath called me from mine old ways, She hath hushed my rancour of council, Bidding me praise

Naught but the wind that flutters in the leaves.

She hath drawn me from mine old ways, Till men say that I am mad; But I have seen the sorrow of men, and am glad, For I know that the wailing and bitterness are a folly. And I? I have put aside all folly and all grief.

I wrapped my tears in an ellum leaf And left them under a stone, And now men call me mad because I have thrown All folly from me, putting it aside To leave the old barren ways of men, Because my bride Is a pool of the wood, and Though all men say that I am mad It is only that I am glad, Very glad, for my bride hath toward me a great love Which is sweeter than the love of women That plague and burn and drive one away.

Aie-e! ’Tis true that I am gay, Quite gay, for I have her alone here And no man troubleth us.

Once when I was among the young men .... And they said I was quite strong, among the young men. Once there was a woman .... .... but I forget .... she was .... .... I hope she will not come again.

.... I do not remember .... I think she hurt me once, but .... That was very long ago.

I do not like to remember things any more.

I like one little band of winds that blow In the ash trees here: For we are quite alone Here amid the ash trees.

[1] Prefatory note at end of the volume.

CINO

ITALIAN CAMPAGNA 1309, 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 tuneing Once for Wind-runeing They dream us-toward and Sighing, 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 tribe That tramp old ways beneath the sunlight, Would Cino of the Luth were here!”

Once, twice, a year— Vaguely thus word they: “Cino?” “Oh, eh, Cino Polnesi The singer is’t you mean?” “Ah yes, passed once our way, A saucy fellow, but .... (Oh, they are all one, these vagabonds), Peste! ’tis his own songs? Or some other’s that he sings? But _you_, My Lord, how with your city?”

But you “My Lord,” God’s pity! And all I knew were out, My Lord, you Were Lack-land Cino, e’en as I am, 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, you Glory to Zeus’ ægis-day, Shield o’ steel-blue, th’ heaven o’er us Hath for boss thy lustre gay!

’Pollo Phoibee, to our way-fare Make 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-way To the gardens of the sun

* * * * *

I have sung women in three cities But it is all one.

I will sing of the white birds In the blue waters of heaven, The clouds that are spray to its sea.

NA AUDIART

“QUE BE-M VOLS MAL”

Any one who has read anything of the troubadours knows well the tale of Bertran of Born and My Lady Maent of 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 preëminent 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 ill,” Audiart, Audiart, Where thy bodice laces start As ivy fingers clutching through Its crevices, Audiart, Audiart, Stately, tall and lovely tender Who shall render, Audiart, Audiart, Praises meet unto thy fashion? Here a word kiss! Pass I on Unto Lady “Miels-de-Ben,” Having praised thy girdle’s scope, How the stays ply back from it; I breathe no hope That thou shouldst .... Nay, no whit Bespeak thyself for anything. Just a word in thy praise, girl, Just for the swirl Thy satins make upon the stair, ’Cause never a flaw was there Where thy torse and limbs are met: Though thou hate me, read it set In 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 praise Sets forth, and though thou hate me well, Yea, though thou wish me ill, Audiart, Audiart Thy loveliness is here writ till, Audiart, Oh, till thou come again.[3] And being bent and wrinkled, in a form That hath no perfect limning, when the warm Youth dew is cold Upon thy hands, and thy old soul, Scorning a new, wry’d casement, Churlish at seemed misplacement, Finds the earth as bitter As now seems it sweet, Being so young and fair As then only in dreams— Being then young and wry’d, Broken of ancient pride, Thou shalt then soften, Knowing I know not how Thou wert once she, Audiart, Audiart, For whose fairness one forgave, Audiart, Audiart Que be-m vols mal.

[2] _I. e. in illumed manuscript._

[3] _Reincarnate._

VILLONAUD FOR THIS YULE

Towards the Noel that morte saison (_Christ make the shepherds’ homage dear!_) Then when the grey wolves everychone Drink of the winds their chill small-beer And lap o’ the snows food’s gueredon, Then maketh my heart his yule-tide cheer (Skoal! with the dregs if the clear be gone!) Wineing the ghosts of yester-year.

Ask ye what ghosts I dream upon? (_What of the magians’ scented gear?_) The ghosts of dead loves everyone That make the stark winds reek with fear Lest love return with the foison sun And slay the memories that me cheer (Such as I drink to mine fashion) 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 clear That 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 done, Nor what God hath that can me cheer, But ye ask first where the winds are gone Wineing the ghosts of yester-year.

[4] _Signum Nativitatis._

A VILLONAUD, BALLAD OF THE GIBBET

OR, THE SONG OF THE SIXTH COMPANION

SCENE: “_En cest bourdel ou tenoms nostr estat._”

It being remembered that there were six of us with Master Villon, when that expecting presently to be hanged he writ a ballad whereof ye know:

“_Frères humains qui après nous vivez._”

Drink ye a skoal for the gallows tree! François and Margot and thee and me, Drink we the comrades merrily Who said us, “Till then” for the gallows tree!

Fat Pierre with the hook gauche-main, Thomas Larron “Ear-the-less,” Tybalde and that armouress Who gave this poignard its premier stain Pinning the Guise that had been fain To make him a mate of the “Haulte Noblesse” And bade her be out with ill address As a fool that mocketh his drue’s disdeign.

Drink we a skoal for the gallows tree! François 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 caress As lips shrink back when we feel the strain Of love that loveth in hell’s disdeign And sense the teeth through the lips that press ’Gainst our lips for the soul’s distress That striveth to ours across the pain.

Drink we skoal to the gallows tree! François and Margot and thee and me, For Jehan and Raoul de Vallerie Whose frames have the night and its winds in fee.

Maturin, Guillaume, Jacques d’Allmain, Culdou, lacking a coat to bless One lean moiety of his nakedness, That plundered St. Hubert back o’ the fane: Aie! the lean bare tree is widowed again For Michault le Borgne that would confess In “faith and troth” to a traitoress, “Which of his brothers had he slain?”

But drink we skoal to the gallows tree! François and Margot and thee and me: These that we loved shall God love less And smite alway at their feebleness?

Skoal!! to the Gallows! and then pray we: God damn his hell out speedily And bring their souls to his High City.

[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.”

MESMERISM

“_And a cat’s in the water-butt._”—ROBERT BROWNING.

Aye, you’re a man that! ye old mesmerizer! Tyin’ your meanin’ in seventy swadelin’s, One must of needs be a hang’d early riser To catch you at worm turning. Holy Odd’s bodykins!

“Cat’s i’ the water-butt!” Thought’s in your verse-barrel, Tell us this thing rather, then we’ll believe you, You, Master Bob Browning, spite your apparel Jump to your sense and give praise as we’d lief do.

You wheeze as a head-cold long-tonsilled Calliope, But, God! what a sight you ha’ got o’ our in’ards, Mad as a hatter but surely no Myope, Broad as all ocean and leanin’ mankin’ards.

Heart that was big as the bowels of Vesuvius, Words that were wing’d as her sparks in eruption, Eagled and thundered as Jupiter Pluvius, Sound in your wind past all signs o’ corruption.

Here’s to you, Old Hippety-hop o’ the accents, True to the Truth’s sake and crafty dissector, You grabbed at the gold sure; had no need to pack cents Into your versicles. Clear sight’s elector!

FAMAM LIBROSQUE CANO

Your songs? Oh! The little mothers Will sing them in the twilight, And when the night Shrinketh the kiss of the dawn That loves and kills, What time the swallow fills Her note, the little rabbit folk That some call children, Such as are up and wide Will laugh your verses to each other, Pulling on their shoes for the day’s business, Serious child business that the world Laughs at, and grows stale; Such is the tale —Part of it—of thy song-life.

Mine? A book is known by them that read That same. Thy public in my screed Is listed. Well! Some score years hence Behold mine audience, As we had seen him yesterday.

Scrawny, be-spectacled, out at heels, Such an one as the world feels A sort of curse against its guzzling And its age-lasting wallow for red greed And yet, full speed Though it should run for its own getting, Will turn aside to sneer at ’Cause he hath No coin, no will to snatch the aftermath Of Mammon. Such an one as women draw away from For the tobacco ashes scattered on his coat And sith his throat Show razor’s unfamiliarity And three days’ beard:

Such an one picking a ragged Backless copy from the stall, Too cheap for cataloguing, Loquitur,

“Ah-eh! the strange rare name ... Ah-eh! He must be rare if even _I_ have not .... And lost mid-page Such age As his pardons the habit, He analyzes form and thought to see How I ’scaped immortality.

IN TEMPORE SENECTUTIS

“For we are old And the earth passion dieth; We have watched him die a thousand times, When he wanes an old wind crieth, For we are old And passion hath died for us a thousand times But we grew never weary.

Memory faileth, as the lotus-loved chimes Sink into fluttering of wind, But we grow never weary For we are old.

The strange night-wonder of your eyes Dies not, though passion flieth Along the star fields of Arcturus And is no more unto our hands; My lips are cold.

And yet we twain are never weary, And the strange night-wonder is upon us, The leaves hold our wonder in their flutterings, The wind fills our mouths with strange words For our wonder that grows not old.

The moth-hour of our day is upon us Holding the dawn; There is strange Night-wonder in our eyes Because the Moth-Hour leadeth the dawn As a maiden, holding her fingers, The rosy, slender fingers of the dawn.”

He saith: “Red spears bore the warrior dawn Of old Strange! Love, hast thou forgotten The red spears of the dawn, The pennants of the morning?”

She saith: “Nay, I remember, but now Cometh the Dawn, and the Moth-Hour Together with him; softly For we are old.”

CAMARADERIE

“_E tuttoque io fosse a la campagnia di molti, quanto alla vista._”

Sometimes I feel thy cheek against my face Close-pressing, soft as is the South’s first breath That all the subtle earth-things summoneth To spring in woodland and in meadow space.

Yea sometimes in a bustling man-filled place Meseemeth some-wise thy hair wandereth Across mine eyes, as mist that halloweth The air awhile and giveth all things grace.

Or on still evenings when the rain falls close There comes a tremor in the drops, and fast My pulses run, knowing thy thought hath passed That beareth thee as doth the wind a rose.

FOR E. McC.

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 gallantly, Made you your pass most valiantly ’Gainst that grey fencer, even Death.

Gone as a gust of breath Faith! no man tarrieth, “_Se il cor ti manca_,” but it failed thee not! “_Non 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 laid As memorable broken blades that be Kept as bold trophies of old pageantry. As old Toledos past their days of war Are kept mnemonic of the strokes they bore, So art thou with us, being good to keep In our heart’s sword-rack, though thy sword-arm sleep.

ENVOI Struck of the blade that no man parrieth, Pierced of the point that toucheth lastly all, ’Gainst that grey fencer, even Death, Behold the shield! He shall not take thee all.

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

BALLAD FOR GLOOM

For God, our God, is a gallant foe That playeth behind the veil.

I have loved my God as a child at heart That seeketh deep bosoms for rest, I have loved my God as maid to man, But lo, this thing is best:

To love your God as a gallant foe that plays behind the veil, To meet your God as the night winds meet beyond Arcturus’ pale.

I have played with God for a woman, I have staked with my God for truth, I have lost to my God as a man, clear eyed; His dice be not of ruth.

For I am made as a naked blade, But hear ye this thing in sooth:

Who loseth to God as man to man Shall win at the turn of the game. I have drawn my blade where the lightnings meet But the ending is the same: Who loseth to God as the sword blades lose Shall win at the end of the game.

For God, our God, is a gallant foe that playeth behind the veil, Whom God deigns not to overthrow hath need of triple mail.

AT THE HEART O’ ME

A. D. 751

With ever one fear at the heart o’ me Long by still sea-coasts coursed my Grey-Falcon, And the twin delights of shore and sea were mine, Sapphire and emerald with fine pearls between.

Through the pale courses of the land-caressing in-streams Glided my barge and the kindly strange peoples Gave to me laugh for laugh, and wine for my tales of wandering. And the cities gave me welcome and the fields free passage, With ever one fear at the heart o’ me.

An thou should’st grow weary ere my returning, An “_they_” should call to thee from out the borderland, What should avail me booty of whale-ways? What should avail me gold rings or the chain-mail? What should avail me the many-twined bracelets? What should avail me, O my beloved, Here in this “Middan-gard”[7] what should avail me Out of the booty and gain of my goings?

[7] Anglo-Saxon, “Earth.”

THE TREE

From “A Lume Spento.”

I stood still and was a tree amid the wood, Knowing the truth of things unseen before; Of Daphne and the laurel bow And that god-feasting couple old That grew elm-oak amid the wold. ’Twas not until the gods had been Kindly entreated, and been brought within Unto the hearth of their heart’s home That they might do this wonder thing; Nathless I have been a tree amid the wood And many a new thing understood That was rank folly to my head before.

AN IDYL FOR GLAUCUS

_Nel suo aspetto tal dentro mi fei_ _Qual si fe’ Glauco nel gustar dell’ erba_ _Che il fe’ consorto in mar degli altri dei._ PARADISO, 1, 67-9. “_As Glaucus tasting the grass that made_ _him sea-fellow with the other gods._”

I

Whither he went I may not follow him. His eyes Were strange to-day. They always were, After their fashion, kindred of the sea.

To-day I found him. It was very long That I had sought among the nets, and when I asked The fishermen, they laughed at me. I sought long days amid the cliffs thinking to find The body-house of him, and then There at the blue cave-mouth my joy Grew pain for suddenness, to see him ’live. Whither he went I may not come, it seems He 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 know One half the substance of his speech with me. And then when I saw naught he sudden leaped, And shot, a gleam of silver, down, away. And I have spent three days upon this rock And yet he comes no more. He did not even seem to know I watched him gliding through the vitreous deep.

II

They chide me that the skein I used to spin Holds not my interest now, They mock me at the route. Well, I have come again. Last night I saw three white forms move, Out 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 come Up from the sea heart to our realm of air They are more far-removèd from the shore. When first I found him here, he slept E’en as he might after a long night’s taking on the deep, And when he woke some whit the old kind smile Dwelt round his lips and held him near to me. But then strange gleams shot through the grey-deep eyes As 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 charm And leapt him in the wave and so was gone.

III

I wonder why he mocked me with the grass. I know not any more how long it is Since I have dwelt not in my mother’s house. I know they think me mad, for all night long I haunt the sea-marge, thinking I may find Some day the herb he offered unto me. Perhaps he did not jest; they say some simples have More 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 crew That 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-caves Know us of old, and know our new-found mate. There’s many a secret stair The sea-folk climb ...

_Out of the Wind._

Oimè, Oimè!