Chapter I: Front Matter

PROVENÇA

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

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._”