The Project Gutenberg eBook of Personae, by Ezra Pound

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Title: Personae

Author: Ezra Pound

Release Date: October 24, 2012 [EBook #41162]

Language: English

Credits: Produced by Marc D'Hooghe at http://www.freeliterature.org (Images generously made available by the Internet Archive)

*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ***

PERSONAE

OF

EZRA POUND

LONDON

ELKIN MATHEWS, VIGO STREET

MCMIX

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

THIS BOOK IS FOR

MARY MOORE

OF TRENTON, IF SHE WANTS IT

CONTENTS

GRACE BEFORE SONG

LA FRAISNE

CINO

NA AUDIART

VILLONAUD FOR THIS YULE

A VILLONAUD: BALLAD OF THE GIBBET

MESMERISM

FIFINE ANSWERS

IN TEMPORE SENECTUTIS

FAMAM LIBROSQUE CANO

SCRIPTOR IGNOTUS

PRAISE OF YSOLT

CAMARADERIE

MASKS

TALLY-O

BALLAD FOR GLOOM

FOR E. Mc C

AT THE HEART O' ME

XENIA

OCCIDIT

SEARCH

AN IDYL FOR GLAUCUS

IN DURANCE

GUILLAUME DE LORRIS BELATED

IN THE OLD AGE OF THE SOUL

ALBA BELINGALIS

FROM SYRIA

FROM THE SADDLE

MARVOIL

REVOLT

AND THUS IN NINEVEH

THE WHITE STAG

PICCADILLY

NOTES

PERSONAE

Grace before Song

Lord God of heaven that with mercy dight

Th' alternate prayer-wheel of the night and light

Eternal hath to thee, and in whose sight

Our days as rain drops in the sea surge fall,

As bright white drops upon a leaden sea

Grant so my songs to this grey folk may be:

As drops that dream and gleam and falling catch the sun,

Evan'scent mirrors every opal one

Of such his splendour as their compass is,

So, bold My Songs, seek ye such death as this.

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

That 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 mid the ash trees.

[1] Prefatory note at end of 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 sun-light,

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' aegis-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.

NOTE: Any one who has read anything of the troubadours knows well the tale of Bertran of Born and My Lady Maent of Montaignac, and knows also the song he made when she would none of him, the song wherein he, seeking to find or make her equal, begs of each preeminent lady of Langue d'Oc some trait or some fair semblance: thus of Cembelins her "esgart amoros" to wit, her love-lit glance, of Aelis her speech free-running, of the Vicomptess of Chales her throat and her two hands, at Roacoart of Anhes her hair golden as Iseult's; and even in this fashion of Lady Audiart "although she would that ill come unto him" he sought and praised the lineaments of the torse. And all this to make "Una dompna soiseubuda" a borrowed lady or as the Italians translated it "Una donna ideale."

Though thou well dost wish me 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 makyth my heart his yule-tide cheer

(Skoal! with the dregs if the clear be gone!)

Wineing the ghosts of yester-year.

Ask ye what ghosts I dream upon?

(What of the magians' scented gear?)

The ghosts of dead loves 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: whereof ye know:

"Frères humains qui après nous vivez."

Drink ye a skoal for the gallows tree!

Francois and Margot and thee and me,

Drink we the comrades merrily

That 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!

Francois and Margot and thee and me,

Drink we to Marienne Ydole,

That hell brenn not her o'er cruelly.

Drink we the lusty robbers twain,

Black is the pitch o' their wedding-dress,[5]

Lips shrunk back for the wind's 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!

Francois 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!

Francois and Margot and thee and me:

These that we loved shall God love less

And smite alway at their faibleness?

Skoal!! to the Gallows! and then pray we:

God damn his hell out speedily

And bring their souls to his "Haulte Citee."

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

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' man-kin'ards.

Heart that was big as the bowels of Vesuvius,

Words that were wing'd as her sparks in eruption,

Eagled and thundered as Jupiter Pluvius,

Sound in your wind past all signs o' corruption.

Here's to you, Old Hippety-hop o' the accents,

True to the Truth's sake and crafty dissector,

You grabbed at the gold sure; had no need to pack cents

Into your versicles.

Clear sight's elector!

Fifine Answers

"Why is it that, disgraced they seem to relish life

the more?"—FIFINE AT THE FAIR, VII, 5.

Sharing his exile that hath borne the flame,

Joining his freedom that hath drunk the shame

And known the torture of the Skull-place hours

Free and so bound, that mingled with the powers

Of air and sea and light his soul's far reach

Yet strictured did the body-lips beseech

"To drink" "I thirst." And then the sponge of gall.

Wherefore we wastrels that the grey road's call

Doth master and make slaves and yet make free,

Drink all of life and quaffing lustily

Take bitter with the sweet without complain

And sharers in his drink defy the pain

That makes you fearful to unfurl your souls.

We claim no glory. If the tempest rolls

About us we have fear, and then

Having so small a stake grow bold again.

We know not definitely even this

But 'cause some vague half knowing half doth miss

Our consciousness and leaves us feeling

That somehow all is well, that sober, reeling

From the last carouse, or in what measure

Of so called right or so damned wrong our leisure

Runs out uncounted sand beneath the sun,

That, spite your carping, still the thing is done

With some deep sanction, that, we know not how,

Sans thought gives us this feeling; you allow

That this not need we know our every thought

Or see the work shop where each mask is wrought

Wherefrom we view the world of box and pit,

Careless of wear, just so the mask shall fit

And serve our jape's turn for a night or two.

Call! eh bye! the little door at twelve!

I meet you there myself.

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."

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.

Scriptor Ignotus

Ferrara 1715

To K.R.H.

"When I see thee as some poor song-bird

Battering its wings, against this cage we

Today,

Then would I speak comfort unto thee,

From out the heights I dwell in, when

That great sense of power is upon me

And I see my greater soul-self bending

Sibylwise with that great forty year epic

That you know of, yet unwrit

But as some child's toy 'tween my fingers,

And see the sculptors of new ages carve me thus,

And model with the music of my couplets in their hearts:

Surely if in the end the epic

And the small kind deed are one;

If to God the child's toy and the epic are the same,

E'en so, did one make a child's toy,

He might wright it well

And cunningly, that the child might

Keep it for his children's children

And all have joy thereof.

Dear, an this dream come true,

Then shall all men say of thee

"She 'twas that played him power at life's morn,

And at the twilight Evensong,

And God's peace dwelt in the mingled chords

She drew from out the shadows of the past,

And old world melodies that else

He had known only in his dreams

Of Iseult and of Beatrice.

Dear, an this dream come true,

I, who being poet only,

Can give thee poor words only,

Add this one poor other tribute,

This thing men call immortality.

A gift I give thee even as Ronsard gave it.

Seeing before time, one sweet face grown old,

And seeing the old eyes grow bright

From out the border of Her fire-lit wrinkles,

As she should make boast unto her maids

"Ronsard hath sung the beauty, my beauty,

Of the days that I was fair."

So hath the boon been given, by the poets of old time

(Dante to Beatrice,—an I profane not—)

Yet with my lesser power shall I not strive

To give it thee?

All ends of things are with Him

From whom are all things in their essence.

If my power be lesser

Shall my striving be less keen?

But rather more! if I would reach the goal,

Take then the striving!

"And if," for so the Florentine hath writ

When having put all his heart

Into his "Youth's Dear Book"

He yet strove to do more honour

To that lady dwelling in his inmost soul

He would wax yet greater

To make her earthly glory more.

Though sight of hell and heaven were price thereof,

If so it be His will, with whom

Are all things and through whom

Are all things good,

Will I make for thee and for the beauty of thy music

A new thing

As hath not heretofore been writ.

Take then my promise!

Praise of Ysolt

In vain have I striven

to teach my heart to bow;

In vain have I said to him

"There be many singers greater than thou."

But his answer cometh, as winds and as lutany.

As a vague crying upon the night

That leaveth me no rest, saying ever,

"Song, a song."

Their echoes play upon each other in the twilight

Seeking ever a song.

Lo, I am worn with travail

And the wandering of many roads hath made my eyes

As dark red circles filled with dust.

Yet there is a trembling upon me in the twilight,

And little red elf words crying "A song,"

Little grey elf words             crying for a song,

Little brown leaf words crying "A song,"

Little green leaf words    crying for a song.

The words are as leaves, old brown leaves in the

spring time

Blowing they know not whither, seeking a song.

White words as snow flakes but they are cold

Moss words, lip words, words of slow streams.

In vain have I striven

to teach my soul to bow,

In vain have I pled with him,

"There be greater souls than thou."

For in the morn of my years there came a woman

As moon light calling

As the moon calleth the tides,

"Song, a song."

Wherefore I made her a song and she went from me

As the moon doth from the sea,

But still came the leaf words, little brown elf words

Saying "The soul sendeth us."

"A song, a song!"

And in vain I cried unto them "I have no song

For she I sang of hath gone from me."

But my soul sent a woman, a woman of the wonder folk,

A woman as fire upon the pine woods

crying "Song, a song."

As the flame crieth unto the sap.

My song was ablaze with her and she went from me

As flame leaveth the embers so went she unto new forests

And the words were with me

crying ever "Song, a song."

And I "I have no song,"

Till my soul sent a woman as the sun:

Yea as the sun calleth to the seed,

As the spring upon the bough

So is she that cometh the song-drawer

She that holdeth the wonder words within her eyes

The words little elf words

that call ever unto me

"Song, a song."

ENVOI

In vain have I striven with my soul

to teach my soul to bow.

What soul boweth

while in his heart art thou?

Camaraderie

"E tuttoque to fosse a la compagnia 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 wood-land and in meadow space.

Yea sometimes in a bustling man-filled place

Me seemeth 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.

Masks

These tales of old disguisings, are they not

Strange myths of souls that found themselves among

Unwonted folk that spake a hostile tongue,

Some soul from all the rest who'd not forgot

The star-span acres of a former lot

Where boundless mid the clouds his course he swung,

Or carnate with his elder brothers sung

E'er ballad makers lisped of Camelot?

Old singers half-forgetful of their tunes,

Old painters colour-blind come back once more,

Old poets skilless in the wind-heart runes,

Old wizards lacking in their wonder-lore:

All they that with strange sadness in their eyes

Ponder in silence o'er earth's queynt devyse?

Tally-O

What ho! the wind is up and eloquent.

Through all the Winter's halls he crieth Spring.

Now will I get me up unto mine own forests

And behold their bourgeoning.

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.

For E. Mc C

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."

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".

Xenia

And

Unto thine eyes my heart

Sendeth old dreams of the spring-time,

Yea of wood-ways my rime

Found thee and flowers in and of all streams

That sang low burthen, and of roses,

That lost their dew-bowed petals for the dreams

We scattered o'er them passing by.

Occidit

Autumnal breaks the flame upon the sun-set herds.

The sheep on Gilead as tawn hair gleam

Neath Mithra's dower and his slow departing,

While in the sky a thousand fleece of gold

Bear, each his tribute, to the waning god.

Hung on the rafters of the effulgent west,

Their tufted splendour shields his decadence,

As in our southern lands brave tapestries

Are hung king-greeting from the ponticells

And drag the pageant from the earth to air,

Wherein the storied figures live again,

Wind-molden back unto their life's erst guise,

All tremulous beneath the many-fingered breath

That Aufidus[8] doth take to house his soul.

[8] The West wind.

Search

I have heard a wee wind searching

Through still forests for me;

I have seen a wee wind searching

O'er still sea.

Through woodlands dim have I taken my way;

And o'er silent waters night and day

Have I sought the wee wind.

An Idyl for Glaucus

Nel suo aspetto tal dentro mifei

Qual si fe' Glauco nel gustar dell' erba

Che il fe' consorto in mar degli altri dei.

PARADISO, I, 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 is 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 the realm of air

They are more far-removed 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!

I wonder why the wind, even the wind doth seem

To mock me now, all night, all night, and

Have I strayed among the cliffs here

They say, some day I'll fall

Down through the sea-bit fissures, and no more

Know the warm cloak of sun, or bathe

The dew across my tired eyes to comfort them.

They try to keep me hid within four walls.

I will not stay!

Oimè!

And the wind saith; Oimè!

I am quite tired now. I know the grass

Must grow somewhere along this Thracian coast,

If only he would come some little while and find it me.

ENDETH THE LAMENT FOR GLAUCUS

In Durance

I am homesick after mine own kind,

Oh I know that there are folk about me, friendly faces,

But I am homesick after mine own kind.

"These sell our pictures"! Oh well,

They reach me not, touch me some edge or that,

But reach me not and all my life's become

One flame, that reacheth not beyond

Mine heart's own hearth,

Or hides among the ashes there for thee.

"Thee"? Oh "thee" is who cometh first

Out of mine own-soul-kin,

For I am homesick after mine own kind

And ordinary people touch me not.

Yea, I am homesick

After mine own kind that know, and feel

And have some breath for beauty and the arts.

Aye, I am wistful for my kin of the spirit

And have none about me save in the shadows

When come they, surging of power, "DAEMON,"

"Quasi KALOUN" S.T. says, Beauty is most that a

"calling to the soul."

Well then, so call they; the swirlers out of the mist

of my soul,

They that come mewards bearing old magic.

But for all that, I am home sick after mine own kind

And would meet kindred e'en as I am,

Flesh-shrouded bearing the secret.

"All they that with strange sadness"

Have the earth in mock'ry, and are kind to all,

My fellows, aye I know the glory

Of th' unbounded ones, but ye, that hide

As I hide most the while

And burst forth to the windows only whiles or whiles

For love, or hope, or beauty or for power,

Then smoulder, with the lids half closed

And are untouched by echoes of the world.

Oh ye, my fellows: with the seas between us some be,

Purple and sapphire for the silver shafts

Of sun and spray all shattered at the bows

Of such a "Veltro" of the vasty deep

As bore my tortoise house scant years agone:

And some the hills hold off,

The little hills to east us, though here we

Have damp and plain to be our shutting in.

And yet my soul sings "Up!" and we are one.

Yea thou, and Thou, and THOU, and all my kin

To whom my breast and arms are ever warm,

For that I love ye as the wind the trees

That holds their blossoms and their leaves in cure

And calls the utmost singing from the boughs

That 'thout him, save the aspen, were as dumb

Still shade, and bade no whisper speak the birds of how

"Beyond, beyond, beyond, there lies...."

Guillaume de Lorris Belated

A Vision of Italy

Wisdom set apart from all desire,

A hoary Nestor with youth's own glad eyes,

Him met I at the style, and all benign

He greeted me an equal and I knew,

By this his lack of pomp, he was himself.

Slow-Smiling is companion unto him,

And Mellow-Laughter serves, his trencherman.

And I a thousand beauties there beheld.

And he and they made merry endlessly.

And love was rayed between them as a mist,

And yet so fine and delicate a haze

It did impede the eyes no whit,

Unless it were to make the halo round each one

Appear more myriad-jewelled marvellous,

Than any pearled and ruby diadem the courts o' earth

ha' known.

Slender as mist-wrought maids and hamadryads

Did meseem these shapes that ministered,

These formed harmonies with lake-deep eyes,

And first the cities of north Italy

I did behold,

Each as a woman wonder-fair,

And svelte Verona first I met at eve;

And in the dark we kissed and then the way

Bore us somewhile apart.

And yet my heart keeps tryst with her,

So every year our thoughts are interwove

As fingers were, such times as eyes see much, and tell.

And she that loved the master years agone,

That bears his signet in her "Signor Square,"

"Che lo glorifico."[9]

She spread her arms,

And in that deep embrace

All thoughts of woe were perished

And of pain and weariness and all the wrack

Of light-contending thoughts and battled-gleams,

(That our intelligence doth gain by strife against itself)

Of things we have not yet the earnèd right to clearly see.

And all, yea all that dust doth symbolize

Was there forgot, and my enfranchised soul

Grew as the liquid elements, and was infused

With joy that is not light, nor might nor harmony,

And yet hath part and quality of all these three,

Whereto is added calm past earthly peace.

Thus with Verona's spirit, and all time

Swept on beyond my ken, and as the sea

Hath in no wise a form within itself,

Cioè, as liquid hath no form save where it bounden is

By some enshrouding chalice of hard things—

As wine its graven goblet, and the sea

Its wave-hewn basalt for a bordering,

So had my thought and now my thought's remembrance

No "information" of whatso there passed

For this long space the dream-king's horny gate.

And when that age was done and the transfusion

Of all my self through her and she through me,

I did perceive that she enthroned two things:

Verona, and a maid I knew on earth;

And dulled some while from dream, and then become

That lower thing, deductive intellect, I saw

How all things are but symbols of all things,[10]

And each of many, do we know

But the equation governing.

And in my rapture at this vision's scope

I saw no end or bourn to what things mean,

So praised Pythagoras and once more raised

By this said rapture to the house of Dream,

Beheld Fenicè as a lotus-flower

Drift through the purple of the wedded sea

And grow a wraith and then a dark-eyed she,

And knew her name was "All-forgetfulness,"

And hailed her: "Princess of the Opiates,"

And guessed her evil and her good thereby.

And then a maid of nine "Pavia" hight,

Passed with a laugh that was all mystery,

And when I turned to her

She reached me one clear chalice of white wine,

Pressed from the recent grapes that yet were hung

Adown her shoulders, and were bound

Right cunningly about her elfish brows;

So hale a draught, the life of every grape

Lurked without ferment in the amber cloud.

And memory, this wine was, of all good.

And more I might have seen: Firenza, Goito,

Or that proudest gate, Ligurian Genoa,

Cornelia of Colombo of far sight,

That, man and seer in one, had well been twain,

And each a glory to his hills and sea;

And past her a great band

Bright garlanded or rich with purple skeins,

And crimson mantles and queynt fineries

That tarnished held but so the more

Of dim allurement in their half-shown folds:

So swept my vision o'er their filmy ranks,

Then rose some opaque cloud,

Whose name I have not yet discerned,

And music as I heard it one clear night

Within our earthly night's own mirroring,

Cioè,—San Pietro by Adige,[11]

Where altar candles blazed out as dim stars,

And all the gloom was soft, and shadowy forms

Made and sang God, within the far-off choir.

And in a clear space high behind

Them and the tabernacle of that place,

Two tapers shew the master of the keys

As some white power pouring forth itself.

And all the church rang low and murmured

Thus in my dream of forms the music swayed.

And I was lost in it and only woke

When something like a mass bell rang, and then

That white-foot wind, pale Dawn's annunciatrice.

Me bore to earth again, but some strange peace

I had not known so well before this swevyn

Clung round my head and made me hate earth less.

[11] For notes on this poem see end of volume.

In the Old Age of the Soul

I do not choose to dream; there cometh on me

Some strange old lust for deeds.

As to the nerveless hand of some old warrior

The sword-hilt or the war-worn wonted helmet

Brings momentary life and long-fled cunning,

So to my soul grown old—

Grown old with many a jousting, many a foray,

Grown old with many a hither-coming and hence-going—

Till now they send him dreams and no more deed;

So doth he flame again with might for action,

Forgetful of the council of the elders,

Forgetful that who rules doth no more battle,

Forgetful that such might no more cleaves to him

So doth he flame again toward valiant doing.

Alba Belingalis

Phoebus shineth ere his splendour flieth

Aurora drives faint light athwart the land

And the drowsy watcher crieth,

"ARISE."

Ref

O'er cliff and ocean the white dawn appeareth

It passeth vigil and the shadows cleareth.

They be careless of the gates, delaying,

Whom the ambush glides to hinder,

Whom I warn and cry to, praying,

"ARISE."

Ref

O'er cliff and ocean the white dawn appeareth

It passeth vigil and the shadows cleareth.

Forth from out Arcturus, North Wind bloweth

The stars of heaven sheathe their glory

And sun-driven forth-goeth

Settentrion.

Ref.

O'er sea mist, and mountain is the dawn display'd

It passeth watch and maketh night afraid.

From a tenth-century MS.

From Syria

The song of Peire Bremon "Lo Tort" that he made for his Lady in Provença: he being in Syria a crusader.

In April when I see all through

Mead and garden new flowers blow,

And streams with ice-bands broken flow,

Eke hear the birds their singing do;

When spring's grass-perfume floateth by

Then 'tis sweet song and birdlet's cry

Do make mine old joy come anew.

Such time was wont my thought of old

To wander in the ways of love.

Burnishing arms and clang thereof,

And honour-services manifold

Be now my need. Whoso combine

Such works, love is his bread and wine,

Wherefore should his fight the more be bold.

Song bear I, who tears should bring

Sith ire of love mak'th me annoy,

With song think I to make me joy.

Yet ne'er have I heard said this thing:

"He sings who sorrow's guise should wear."

Natheless I will not despair

That sometime I'll have cause to sing.

I should not to despair give way

That some while I'll my lady see.

I trust well He that lowered me

Hath power again to make me gay.

But if e'er I come to my Love's land

And turn again to Syrian strand,

God keep me there for a fool, alway!

God for a miracle well should

Hold my coming from her away,

And hold me in His grace alway

That I left her, for holy-rood.

An I lose her, no joy for me,

Pardi, hath the wide world in fee.

Nor could He mend it, if He would.

Well did she know sweet wiles to take

My heart, when thence I took my way.

'Thout sighing, pass I ne'er a day

For that sweet semblance she did make

To me, saying all in sorrow:

"Sweet friend, and what of me to-morrow?"

"Love mine, why wilt me so forsake?"

ENVOI

Beyond sea be thou sped, my song,

And, by God, to my Lady say

That in desirous, grief-filled way

My nights and my days are full long.

And command thou William the Long-Seer

To tell thee to my Lady dear,

That comfort be her thoughts among.

The only bit of Peire Bremon's work that has come down to us, and through its being printed with the songs of Giraut of Bornelh he is like to lose credit for even this.—E.P.

From the Saddle

D'AUBIGNE TO DIANE

Wearied by wind and wave death goes

With gin and snare right near alway

Unto my sight. Behind me bay

As hounds the tempests of my foes.

Ever on ward against such woes,

Pistols my pillow's service pay,

Yet Love makes me the poet play.

Thou know'st the rime demands repose,

So if my line disclose distress,

The soldier and my restlessness

And teen, Pardon, dear Lady mine,

For since mid war I bear love's pain

'Tis meet my verse, as I, show sign

Of powder, gun-match and sulphur stain.

Marvoil

A poor clerk I, "Arnaut the less" they call me,

And because I have small mind to sit

Day long, long day cooped on a stool

A-jumbling o' figures for Maitre Jacques Polin,

I ha' taken to rambling the South here.

The Vicomte of Beziers's not such a bad lot.

I made rimes to his lady this three year:

Vers and canzone, till that damn'd son of Aragon,

Alfonso the half-bald, took to hanging

His helmet at Beziers.

Then came what might come, to wit: three men and one woman,

Beziers off at Mont-Ausier, I and his lady

Singing the stars in the turrets of Beziers,

And one lean Aragonese cursing the seneschal

To the end that you see, friends:

Aragon cursing in Aragon, Beziers busy at Beziers—

Bored to an inch of extinction,

Tibors all tongue and temper at Mont-Ausier,

Me! in this damn'd inn of Avignon,

Stringing long verse for the Burlatz;

All for one half-bald, knock-knee'd king of the Aragonese,

Alfonso, Quatro, poke-nose.

And if when I am dead

They take the trouble to tear out this wall here,

They'll know more of Arnaut of Marvoil

Than half his canzoni say of him.

As for will and testament I leave none,

Save this: "Vers and canzone to the Countess of Beziers

In return for the first kiss she gave me."

May her eyes and her cheek be fair

To all men except the King of Aragon,

And may I come speedily to Beziers

Whither my desire and my dream have preceded me.

O hole in the wall here! be thou my jongleur

As ne'er had I other, and when the wind blows,

Sing thou the grace of the Lady of Beziers,

For even as thou art hollow before I fill thee with

this parchment,

So is my heart hollow when she filleth not mine eyes,

And so were my mind hollow, did she not fill utterly

my thought.

Wherefore, O hole in the wall here,

When the wind blows sigh thou for my sorrow

That I have not the Countess of Beziers

Close in my arms here.

Even as thou shalt soon have this parchment.

O hole in the wall here, be thou my jongleur,

And though thou sighest my sorrow in the wind,

Keep yet my secret in thy breast here;

Even as I keep her image in my heart here.

Mihi pergamena deest.

Revolt

Against the crepuscular spirit in

modern poetry

I would shake off the lethargy of this our time,

and give

For shadows—shapes of power

For dreams—men.

"It is better to dream than do"?

Aye! and, No!

Aye! if we dream great deeds, strong men,

Hearts hot, thoughts mighty.

No! if we dream pale flowers,

Slow-moving pageantry of hours that languidly

Drop as o'er-ripened fruit from sallow trees.

If so we live and die not life but dreams,

Great God, grant life in dreams,

Not dalliance, but life!

Let us be men that dream,

Not cowards, dabblers, waiters

For dead Time to reawaken and grant balm

For ills unnamed.

Great God, if we be damn'd to be not men but only dreams,

Then let us be such dreams the world shall tremble at

And know we be its rulers though but dreams!

Then let us be such shadows as the world shall tremble at

And know we be its masters though but shadow!

Great God, if men are grown but pale sick phantoms

That must live only in these mists and tempered lights

And tremble for dim hours that knock o'er loud

Or tread too violent in passing them;

Great God, if these thy sons are grown such thin ephemera,

I bid thee grapple chaos and beget

Some new titanic spawn to pile the hills and stir

This earth again.

And Thus in Nineveh

"Aye! I am a poet and upon my tomb

Shall maidens scatter rose leaves

And men myrtles, ere the night

Slays day with her dark sword.

"Lo! this thing is not mine

Nor thine to hinder,

For the custom is full old,

And here in Nineveh have I beheld

Many a singer pass and take his place

In those dim halls where no man troubleth

His sleep or song.

And many a one hath sung his songs

More craftily, more subtle-souled than I;

And many a one now doth surpass

My wave-worn beauty with his wind of flowers,

Yet am I poet, and upon my tomb

Shall all men scatter rose leaves

Ere the night slay light

With her blue sword.

"It is not, Raama, that my song rings highest

Or more sweet in tone than any, but that I

Am here a Poet, that doth drink of life

As lesser men drink wine."

The White Stag

I ha' seen them mid the clouds on the heather.

Lo! they pause not for love nor for sorrow,

Yet their eyes are as the eyes of a maid to her lover,

When the white hart breaks his cover

And the white wind breaks the morn.

"'Tis the white stagy Fame, we're a-hunting,

Bid the world's hounds come to horn!"

Piccadilly

Beautiful, tragical faces,

Ye that were whole, and are so sunken;

And, O ye vile, ye that might have been loved,

That are so sodden and drunken,

Who hath forgotten you?

O wistful, fragile faces, few out of many!

The gross, the coarse, the brazen,

God knows I cannot pity them, perhaps, as I should do,

But, oh, ye delicate, wistful faces,

Who hath forgotten you?

NOTES

NOTE PRECEDENT TO "LA FRAISNE"

"When the soul is exhausted of fire, then doth the spirit return unto its primal nature and there is upon it a peace great and of the woodland

"magna pax et silvestris."

Then becometh it kin to the faun and the dryad, a woodland-dweller amid the rocks and streams

"consociis faunis dryadisque inter saxa sylvarum."

Janus of Basel.[1]

Also has Mr. Yeats in his "Celtic Twilight" treated of such, and I because in such a mood, feeling myself divided between myself corporal and a self aetherial "a dweller by streams and in woodland," eternal because simple in elements

" Aeternus quia simplex naturae."

Being freed of the weight of a soul "capable of salvation or damnation," a grievous striving thing that after much straining was mercifully taken from me; as had one passed saying as one in the Book of the Dead,

"I, lo I, am the assembler of souls," and had taken it with him leaving me thus simplex naturae, even so at peace and transsentient as a wood pool I made it.

The Legend thus: "Miraut de Garzelas, after the pains he bore a-loving Riels of Calidorn and that to none avail, ran mad in the forest.

"Yea even as Peire Vidal ran as a wolf for her of Penautier though some say that twas folly or as Garulf Bisclavret so ran truly, till the King brought him respite (See 'Lais' Marie de France), so was he ever by the Ash Tree."

Hear ye his speaking: (low, slowly he speaketh it, as one drawn apart, reflecting) (égaré).

[1] Referendum for contrast. "Daemonalitas" of the Rev. Father Sinistrari of Ameno (1600 circ.) "A treatise wherein is shown that there are in existence on earth rational creatures besides man, endowed like him with a body and soul, that are born and die like him, redeemed by our Lord Jesus Christ, and capable of receiving salvation or damnation." Latin and English text, pub. Liseux, Paris, 1879.

NOTES ON NEW POEMS

VISION OF ITALY.

1. "che lo glorifico." In the Piazza dei Signori, you will find an inscription which translates thus:

"It is here Can Grande della Scala gave welcome to Dante Alighieri, the same which glorified him, dedicating to him that third his song eternal."

"C.G. vi accolse D.A. che lo

glorifico dedicandogli la terza,

delle eterne sue cantiche."

2. Ref. Richard of St. Victor. "On the preparation of the soul for contemplation," where he distinguishes between cogitation, meditation, and contemplation.

In cogitation the thought or attention flits aimlessly about the subject.

In meditation it circles round it, that is, it views it systematically, from all sides, gaining perspective.

In contemplation it radiates from a centre, that is, as light from the sun it reaches out in an infinite number of ways to things that are related to or dependent on it.

The words above are my own, as I have not the Benjamin Minor by me.

Following St. Victor's figure of radiation: Poetry in its acme is expression from contemplation.

3. San Pietro Incarnato. There are several rows of houses intervening between it and the river.

ALBA BELINGALIS

MS. in Latin, with refrain,

"L alba par umet mar atras el poy

Pas abigil miraclar Tenebris."

It was and may still be the oldest fragment of Provençal known.

MARVOIL

The Personae are:

Arnaut of Marvoil, a troubadour, date 1170-1200.

The Countess (in her own right) of Burlatz, and of Beziers, being

the wife of

The Vicomte of Beziers.

Alfonso IV of Aragon.

Tibors of Mont-Ausier. For fuller mention of her see the

"razos" on Bertran of Born. She is contemporary with the

other persons, but I have no strict warrant for dragging her name

into this particular affair.

Marco Londonio's Italian version of "Nel Biancheggiar":

Nel biancheggiar di delicata rosa

Risplendono i colori

D' occidentali fiori

Prima che l'alba, in esultanza ascosa

Voglia baciarli. Ed aleggiar io sento

Qual su dolce lïuto

Nel lor linguaggio muto

Fiorir di gioia e tocco di tormento

Cosi un' arcano senso di languore,

Le sue sognanti dita

Fanno scordar la vita

Spirando in verso tutto pien d'amore....

Senza morir: chè sanno i suoni alati,

Vedendo il nostro stato,

Ch' è dal dolor turbato,

Di lasciarci, morendo, desolati.

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Table of Contents

The Project Gutenberg eBook of Personae, by Ezra Pound

PERSONAE

OF

EZRA POUND

THIS BOOK IS FOR MARY MOORE OF TRENTON, IF SHE WANTS IT

PERSONAE

Grace before Song

La Fraisne[1]

Cino

Na Audiart

Villonaud for this Yule

A Villonaud Ballad of the Gibbet Or the song of the sixth companion

Mesmerism

Fifine Answers

In Tempore Senectutis

Famam Librosque Cano

Scriptor Ignotus Ferrara 1715

Praise of Ysolt

Camaraderie

Masks

Tally-O

Ballad for Gloom

For E. Mc C

At the Heart o' Me

Xenia

Occidit

Search

An Idyl for Glaucus

In Durance

Guillaume de Lorris Belated

A Vision of Italy

In the Old Age of the Soul

Alba Belingalis

From Syria

From the Saddle

D'AUBIGNE TO DIANE

Marvoil

Revolt

Against the crepuscular spirit in modern poetry

And Thus in Nineveh

The White Stag

Piccadilly

NOTES

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE