Delphi Poetical Works of Ezra Pound E-Book

Ezra Pound

• Herausgeber: Delphi Classics
• Kategorie: Poesie und Drama
• Serie: Delphi Poets Series
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 1405

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2015

Beschreibung

American poet and critic, Ezra Pound was a major figure of the modernist movement, whose poetry collections and development of Imagism advocated clarity, precision and economy of language. The Delphi Poets Series offers readers the works of literature's finest poets, with superior formatting. This comprehensive volume presents Pound’s early poetical works, with beautiful illustrations and the usual Delphi bonus material. (Version 1)

* Beautifully illustrated with images relating to Pound's life and works
* Concise introductions to the poetry collections and other works
* Images of how the poetry books were first printed, giving your eReader a taste of the original texts
* Rare poetry collections appearing in digital print for the first time
* Excellent formatting of the poems
* Special chronological and alphabetical contents tables for the poetry
* Easily locate the poems you want to read
* Features the rare translations of ‘Noh’ Japanese dramas, first time in digital print
* Includes a selection of Pound's non-fiction
* Scholarly ordering of texts into chronological order and literary genres Please note: this is the most complete collection possible of Pound’s poetry in the US, due to copyright. When more texts enter the public domain, they will be added to the collection as a free update. Please visit www.delphiclassics.com to browse through our range of exciting titles CONTENTS: The Poetry Collections
HILDA’S BOOK
A LUME SPENTO
A QUINZAINE FOR THIS YULE
PERSONAE
EXULTATIONS
THE SPIRIT OF ROMANCE
CANZONI
THE SONNETS AND BALLATE OF GUIDO CAVALCANTI
RIPOSTES
CATHAY
LUSTRA
ARNAUT DANIEL
PAVANNES AND DIVISIONS
QUIA PAUPER AMAVI
HUGH SELWYN MAUBERLEY
UMBRA
UNPUBLISHED VERSES The Poems
LIST OF POEMS IN CHRONOLOGICAL ORDER
LIST OF POEMS IN ALPHABETICAL ORDER The Poetical Dramas
‘NOH’, OR, ACCOMPLISHMENT: A STUDY OF THE CLASSICAL STAGE OF JAPAN The Prose
INSTIGATIONS OF EZRA POUND
Translation of ‘THE NATURAL PHILOSOPHY OF LOVE’ by Remy de Gourmont Please visit www.delphiclassics.com to browse through our range of exciting titles

Leseprobe

Ezra Pound

(1885-1972)

Contents

The Poetry Collections

HILDA’S BOOK

A LUME SPENTO

A QUINZAINE FOR THIS YULE

PERSONAE

EXULTATIONS

THE SPIRIT OF ROMANCE

CANZONI

THE SONNETS AND BALLATE OF GUIDO CAVALCANTI

RIPOSTES

CATHAY

LUSTRA

ARNAUT DANIEL

PAVANNES AND DIVISIONS

QUIA PAUPER AMAVI

HUGH SELWYN MAUBERLEY

UMBRA

UNPUBLISHED VERSES

The Poems

LIST OF POEMS IN CHRONOLOGICAL ORDER

LIST OF POEMS IN ALPHABETICAL ORDER

The Poetical Dramas

‘NOH’, OR, ACCOMPLISHMENT: A STUDY OF THE CLASSICAL STAGE OF JAPAN

The Prose

INSTIGATIONS OF EZRA POUND

Translation of ‘THE NATURAL PHILOSOPHY OF LOVE’ by Remy de Gourmont

© Delphi Classics 2015

Version 1

Ezra Pound

By Delphi Classics, 2015

COPYRIGHT

Ezra Pound - Delphi Poets Series

First published in the United Kingdom in 2015 by Delphi Classics.

© Delphi Classics, 2015.

All rights reserved.  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form other than that in which it is published.

Delphi Classics

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Delphi Publishing Ltd

Hastings, East Sussex

United Kingdom

Contact: [email protected]

www.delphiclassics.com

NOTE

When reading poetry on an eReader, it is advisable to use a small font size and landscape mode, which will allow the lines of poetry to display correctly.

The Poetry Collections

Pound’s birthplace in Hailey, Idaho

Hailey, 1884

Pound, wearing his Cheltenham Military Academy uniform, with his mother, Isabel, in 1898

Pound in 1913, aged 28

HILDA’S BOOK

Pound’s very first publication (“by E. L. Pound, Wyncote, aged 11 years”) was a limerick in the Jenkintown Times-Chronicle about William Jennings Bryan, who had just lost the 1896 presidential election:

There was a young man from the West,

He did what he could for what he thought best;

But election came round,

He found himself drowned,

And the papers will tell you the rest.

Between 1897 and 1900 Pound attended Cheltenham Military Academy, occasionally as a boarder, where he specialised in Latin and the Classics. He made his first trip abroad in the summer of 1898 when he was 13 years old. It was a three-month tour of Europe with his mother and Frances Weston (Aunt Frank), who took him to England, Belgium, Germany, Switzerland and Italy. After attending the academy he may have attended Cheltenham Township High School for a year. In 1901 at the age of 15, he was admitted to the University of Pennsylvania’s College of Liberal Arts.

Whilst at the university, he met Hilda Doolittle (later to become the poet known as H.D.), who was the daughter of the professor of astronomy. She followed Pound to Europe in 1908, leaving her family, friends and country behind at great personal risk, to help Pound with developing the Imagism movement in London. In February 1908, Pound asked her father for permission to marry Hilda. Doolittle was a curt man, described as ‘donnish’ and intimidating. Not impressed by Pound’s reputation as a ladies’ man and his sluggish career start as a poet, often moving from place to place. Doolittle’s response was dismissive: “What! … Why you’re nothing but a nomad!” Pound asked Hilda to marry him in the summer of 1907, and though rejected, he wrote several poems for her between 1905 and 1907, twenty-five of which were later hand-bound and arranged in the following unofficial collection, titled Hilda’s Book.

Hilda “H.D.” Doolittle (1886–1961) was an American poet, novelist, and memoirist known for her association with the Imagist group of poets. She published under the pen name of H.D.

CONTENTS

CHILD OF THE GRASS

I STROVE A LITTLE BOOK TO MAKE FOR HER

BEING ALONE WHERE THE WAY WAS FULL OF DUST

LA DONZELLA BEATA

THE WINGS

VER NOVUM

TO ONE THAT JOURNEYETH WITH ME

DOMINA

THE LEES

PER SAECULA

SHADOW

THE BANNERS

TO DRAW BACK INTO THE SOUL OF THINGS. PAX

GREEN HARPING

LI BEL CHASTENS

THE ARCHES

ERA VENUTA

THE TREE

BEING BEFORE THE VISION OF LI BEL CHASTENS

THU IDES TIL

L’ENVOI

THE WIND

SANCTA PATRONA

RENDEZ-VOUS

CHILD OF THE GRASS

Child of the grassThe years pass Above usShadows of air All these shall Love usWinds for our fellowsThe browns and the yellows    Of autumn our colorsNow at our life’s morn. Be we well swornNe’er to grow olderOur spirits be bolder At meetingThan e’er before All the old loreOf the forests & woodwaysShall aid us: Keep we the bond & sealNe’er shall we feelAught of sorrow

Let light flow about theeAs a cloak of air

I STROVE A LITTLE BOOK TO MAKE FOR HER

I strove a little book to make for her,Quaint bound, as ‘twere in parchment very old,That all my dearest words of her should hold,Wherein I speak of mystic wings that whirrAbove me when within my soul do stirStrange holy longingsThat may not be toldWherein all autumn’s crimson and fine goldAnd wold smells subtle as far-wandered myrrhShould be as burden to my heart’s own song.I pray thee love these wildered words of mine:Tho I be weak, is beauty alway strong,So be they cup-kiss to the mingled wineThat life shall pour for us life’s ways among.Ecco il libro: for the book is thine.

BEING ALONE WHERE THE WAY WAS FULL OF DUST

Being alone where the way was full of dust, I said“Era meaIn qua terraDulce myrrtii floribusRosa amorisVia errorisAd te coram veniam.”And afterwards being come to a woodland place where thesun was warm amid the autumn, my lips, striving to speak formy heart, formed those words which here follow.

LA DONZELLA BEATA

SoulCaught in the rose hued meshOf o’er fair earthly fleshStooped you again to bearThis thing for meAnd be rare lightFor me, gold whiteIn the shadowy path I tread?Surely a bolder maid art thouThan one in tearful fearful longingThat would wait Lily-cincturedStar-diademed at the gateOf high heaven crying that I should comeTo thee.

THE WINGS

A wondrous holiness hath touched meAnd I have felt the whirring of its wingsAbove me, Lifting me above all terrene thingsAs her fingers fluttered into mineIts wings whirring above me as it passedI know no thing therelike, lest it beA lapping wind among the pinesHalf shadowed of a hidden moonA wind that presseth close    and kisseth notBut whirreth, soft as lightOf twilit streams in hidden waysThis is base thereto and unhallowed...Her fingers layed on mine in fluttering benedictionAnd above the whirring of all-holy wings.

VER NOVUM

Thou that art sweeter than all orchards’ breathAnd clearer than the sun gleam after rainThou that savest my soul’s self from deathAs scorpion’s is, of self-inflicted painThou that dost ever make demand for the best I have to giveGentle to utmost courteousy bidding only my pure-purgedspirits live:Thou that spellest ever gold from out my drossMage powerful and subtly sweetGathering fragments that there be no lossBehold the brighter gains lie at thy feet.

If any flower mortescent lay in sun-withering dustIf any old forgotten sweetness of a former drinkNaught but stilt fragrance of autumnal flowersMnemonic of spring’s bloom and parody of powersThat make the spring the mistress of our earth — If such a perfume of a dulled rebirthLingered, obliviate with o’er mistrust,Marcescent, fading on the dolorous brinkThat border is to that marasmic seaWhere all desire’s harmony

Tendeth and endeth in sea monotoneBlendeth wave and wind and rocks most drearInto dull sub-harmonies of light; out grownFrom man’s compass of intelligence,Where love and fear meetHaving ceased to be:

All this, and such disconsolate fineryAs doth remain in this gaunt castle of my heartThou gatherest of thy clemencySifting the fair and foul apart,Thou weavest for thy self a sun-gold bowerBy subtily incanted raedEvery unfavorable and ill-happed hourTurneth blind and potently is stayedBefore the threshold of thy dwelling place

Holy, as beneath all-holy wingsSome sacred covenant had passed therebyWondrous as wind murmuringsThat night thy fingers laid on mine their benedictionWhen thru the interfoliate stringsJoy sang among God’s earthly treesYea in this house of thine that I have found at lastMeseemeth a high heaven’s antepastAnd thou thyself art unto meBoth as the glory head and sunCasting thine own anthelionThru this dull mistMy soul was wont to be.

TO ONE THAT JOURNEYETH WITH ME

“Naethless, whither thou goest I will go.”Let, Dear, this sweet thing be, if be it mayBut hear this truth for truth,Let hence and alway whither soe’er I wander there I knowThy presence, if the waning wind move slowThru woodlands where the sun’s last vassals strayOr if the dawn with shimmering arrayDoth spy the land where eastward peaks bend low.Yea all day long as one not wholly seenNor ever wholly lost unto my sightThou mak’st me company for love’s sweet sakeWherefor this praising from my heart I makeTo one that brav’st the way with me for nightOr day, and drinks with me the soft wind and the keen.

DOMINA

My Lady is tall and fair to seeShe swayeth as a poplar treeWhen the wind bloweth merrilyHer eyes are grey as the grey of the seaNot clouded much to trouble me    When the wind bloweth merrilyMy Lady’s glance is fair and straightMy Lady’s smile is changed of late    the the wind bloweth merrilySome new soul in her eyes I seeNot as year-syne she greeteth meWhen the wind bloweth merrilySome strange new thing she can not tellSome mystic danaan spell    When the wind bloweth merrilyMaketh her long hands tremble someHer lips part, the no words come    When the wind bloweth merrilyHer hair is brown as the leaves that fallShe hath no villeiny at allWhen the wind bloweth merrilyWhen the wind bloweth my Lady’s hairI bow with a murmured prayer    For the wind that bloweth merrilyWith my lady far, the days be longFor her homing I’d clasp the song    That the wind bloweth merrilyWind song: this is my Lady’s praiseWhat be lipped words of all men’s laysWhen the wind bloweth merrilyTo my Lady needs I send the bestOnly the wind’s song serves that behest.For the wind bloweth merrily.

THE LEES

There is a mellow twilight ‘neath the treesSoft and hallowed as is a thought of thee,Low soundeth a murmurous minstrelsyA mingled evensong beneath the breezeEach creeping, leaping chorister hath easeTo sing, to whirr his heart out, joyously;Wherefor take thou my laboured litanyHalting, slow pulsed it is, being the leesOf song wine that the master bards of oldHave left for me to drink thy glory in.Yet so these crimson cloudy lees shall holdSome faint fragrance of that former wineO Love, my White-flower-o-the-JasaminGrant that the kiss upon the cup be thine.

PER SAECULA

Where have I met thee? Oh Love tell me whereIn the aisles of the past were thy lips knownTo me, as where your breath as roses blownAcross my cheek? Where through your tangled hairHave I seen the eyes of my desire bearHearts crimson unto my heart’s heart? As mownGrain of the gold brown harvest from seed sownBountifully amid spring’s emeralds fairSo is our reaping now: But speak that springWhisper in the murmurous twilight whereI met thee mid the roses of the pastWhere you gave your first kiss in the last,Whisper the name thine eyes were wont to bearThe mystic name whereof my heart shall sing.

SHADOW

Darkness hath descended upon the earthAnd there are no starsThe sun from zenith to nadir is fallenAnd the thick air stifleth me.Sodden go the hoursYea the minutes are molten lead, stinging and heavyI saw her yesterday.And lo, there is no timeEach second being eternity.Peace! trouble me no more.Yes, I know your eyes clear poolsHolding the summer sky within their depthBut trouble me notI saw HER yesterday.Peace! your hair is spun gold fine wrought and wondrousBut trouble me notI saw her yester e’en.Darkness hath filled the earth at her goingAnd the wind is listless and heavyWhen will the day come: when will the sunBe royal in bountyFrom nadir to zenith up-leaping?For lo! his steeds are weary, not having beheld herSince sun set.Oh that the sun steeds were wiseArising to seek her!The sun sleepeth in Orcus.From zenith to nadir is fallen his gloryIs fallen, is fallen his wonderI saw her yesterdaySince when there is no sun.   ONE WHOSE SOUL WAS   SO FULL OF ROSE   LEAVES STEEPED IN   GOLDEN WINE THAT THERE   WAS NO ROOM THEREIN   FOR ANY VILLEINY —

THE BANNERS

My wandring brother wind wild bloweth nowOctober whirleth leaves in dusty airSeptember’s yellow gold that mingled fairWith green and rose tint on each maple boughSulks into deeper browns and doth endowThe wood-way with a tapis broidered rare — And whereKing oak tree his brave panoply did wearOf quaint device and coloredThe dawn doth show him but a shorn stave now.If where the wood stood in its pageantryA castle holyday’d to greet its queenNow but the barren banner poles be seenYea that the ruined walls stand ruefullyI make no grief, nor do I feel this teenSith thou mak’st autumn as spring’s noon to me.

TO DRAW BACK INTO THE SOUL OF THINGS. PAX

Meseemeth that ’tis sweet this wise to lieSomewhile quite parted from the stream of thingsWatching alone the clouds’ high wanderingsAs free as they are in some wind-free skyWhile naught but thoughts of thee as clouds glide byOr come as faint blown wind across the stringsOf this odd lute of mine imaginingsAnd make it whisper me quaint things and highSuch peace as this would make death’s self most sweetCould I but know, Thou maiden of the sun,That thus thy presence would go forth with meUnto that shadow land where ages’ feetHave wandered, and where life’s dreaming doneLove may dream on unto eternity.

GREEN HARPING

Thou that wearest the doeskins’ hue“Hallew!”“Hallew!”Tho the elfin horn shall call to you‘true — be trueBy the violets in thy leaf brown hair‘ware — be wareTho the elfin knights shall find thee fair‘ware — too fairTho hosts of night shall hail thee queen    In the EringreenThe elf old queen hath sorrow seenand teen much teenTho the shadow lords shall marshall their might    afore thy sightHold thou thy heart of my heart’s right    in their despiteTho night shall dwell in thy child eyes‘wise — be wiseThat thy child heart — to mine emprise‘plies — repliesFor night shall flee from the fore-sun’s flame‘shame in shameTho my heart to thee embeggared came‘same ’tis the sameThat lordship o’er the light doth hold‘bold — quite boldAnd thee to my kingdom I enfoldBy spell of old.

From another sonnet.THY FINGERS MOVE AGAIN ACROSS MY FACEAS LITTLE WINDS THAT DREAMBUT DARE IN NO WISE TELL THEIR DREAM ALOUD —

LI BEL CHASTENS

That castle stands the highest in the LandFar seen and mighty — Of the great hewn stonesWhat shall I say?And deep foss-wayThat far beneath us bore of oldA swelling turbid seaHill-born and torrent-wiseUnto the fields below, whereStaunch villein and wanderedBurgher held the land and tilledLong labouring for gold of wheat grainAnd to see the beards come forthFor barley’s even-tide.

But circle arched above the hum of lifeWe dwelt, amid theAncient bouldersGods had hewnAnd druids runedUnto the birth most wondrousThat had grownA mighty fortress while the world had sleptAnd we awaited in the shadows thereWhile mighty hands had laboured sightlesslyAnd shaped this wonder ‘bove the ways of men.

Meseems we could not see the great green wavesNor rocky shore by TintagoelFrom this our holdBut came faint murmuring as undersongE’en as the burgher’s hum aroseAnd died as faint wind melodyBeneath our gates.

THE ARCHES

That wind-swept castle hight with thee aloneAbove the dust and rumble of the earth:It seemeth to mine heart another birthTo date the mystic time, whence I have grownUnto new mastery of dreams and thrownOld shadows from me as of lesser worth.For ‘neath the arches where the winds make mirthWe two may drink a lordship all our own.Yea alway had I longed to hold real dreamsNot laboured things we make beneath the sunBut such as come unsummoned in our sleep,And this above thine other gifts, meseemsThou’st given me. So when the day is doneThou meet me ‘bove the world in this our keep.

ERA VENUTA

Some times I feel thy cheek against my faceClose pressing, soft as is the South’s first breathThat all the soft small earth things summonethTo spring in woodland and in meadow spaceYea sometimes in a dusty man-filled placeMeseemeth somewise thy hair wanderethAcross my eyes as mist that hallowethMy sight and shutteth out the world’s disgraceThat is apostasy of them that failDenying that God doth God’s self discloseIn every beauty that they will not see.Naethless when this sweetness comes to meI know thy thought doth pass as elfin “Hail.”That beareth thee, as doth the wind a rose.

THE TREE

I stood still and was a tree amid the woodKnowing the truth of things unseen beforeOf Daphne and the laurel bowAnd that god-feasting couple oldThat grew elm-oak amid the wold’Twas not until the gods had beenKindly entreated and been brought withinUnto the hearth of their hearts’ homeThat they might do this wonder thing.Naethless I have been a tree amid the woodAnd many new things understoodThat were rank folly to my head before.

BEING BEFORE THE VISION OF LI BEL CHASTENS

“E’en as lang syne from shadowy castle towers“Thy striving eyes did wander to discern“Which compass point my homeward way should be.”For you meseem some strange strong soul of wine...

Hair some hesitating wind shall blow Backward as somebrown hazeThat drifteth from thy face as fog that shifteth from fore someHidden light and slow discloseth that the light is fair —

THU IDES TIL

O thou of Maydes all most wonder sweetThat art my comfort eke and my solaceWhan thee I find in any wolde or placeI doon thee reverence as is most meet.To cry thy prayse I nill nat be discreetThou hast swich debonairite and graceSwich gentyl smile thy alderfayrest faceTo run thy prayse I ne hold not my feet.My Lady, the I ne me hold thee froNor streyve with thee by any game to playBut offer only thee myn own herte reedeI prey by love that thou wilt kindness doAnd that thou keep my song by night and dayAs shadow blood from myn own herte y-blede.

L’ENVOI

Full oft in musty, quaint lined book of oldHave I found rhyming for some maiden quaintIn fashioned chanconnette and teen’s compleyntThe sweet-scent loves of chivalry be toldWith fair conceit and flower manifoldRight subtle tongued in complex verse restraintAgainst their lyric might my skill’s but faint.My flower’s outworn, the later rhyme runs coldNaethless, I loving cease me not to singLove song was blossom to the searching breezeE’er Paris’ rhyming had availed to bringHelen and Greece for towered Troy’s diseaseWherefor, these petals to the winds I fling‘Vail they or fail they as the winds shall please.

THE WIND

“I would go forth into the night” she saith.The night is very cold beneath the moon‘Twere meet, my Love that thou went forth at noonFor now the sky is cold as very death.And then she drew a little sobbing breath“Without a little lonely wind doth cruneAnd calleth me with wandered elfin runeThat all true wind-born children summonethDear, hold me closer! so, till it is pastNay I am gone the while. Await!”And I await her here for I have understood.Yet held I not this very wind — bound fastWithin the casde of my soul I wouldFor very faintness at her parting, die.

SANCTA PATRONA

Domina CaelaeOut of thy puritySaint Hilda pray for me.Lay on my foreheadThe hands of thy blessing.Saint Hilda pray for meLay on my foreheadCool hands of thy blessingOut of thy purityLay on my foreheadWhite hands of thy blessing.Virgo caelicolaOra pro nobis.

RENDEZ-VOUS

She hath some tree-born spirit of the woodAbout her, and the wind is in her hairMeseems he whisp’reth and awaiteth thereAs if somewise he also understood.The moss-grown kindly trees, meseems, she couldAs kindred claim, for the to some they wearA harsh dumb semblance, unto us that careThey guard a marvelous sweet brotherhoodAnd thus she dreams unto the soul of thingsForgetting me, and that she hath it notOf dull man-wrought philosophies I wot,She dreameth thus, so when the woodland singsI challenge her to meet my dream at AstalotAnd give him greeting for the song he brings.

A LUME SPENTO

Pound’s first poetry collection was self-published in Venice in 1908. The title of the work, translated by him as ‘With Tapers Quenched’, is an allusion to the third canto of Dante’s Purgatory, occurring in the speech of Manfred, King of Sicily, as he describes the treatment of the excommunication he has endured, when exhumed and discarded without light along the banks of the River Verde. Having studied Romance languages and literature, including French, Italian and Spanish at the University of Pennsylvania and Hamilton College, Pound uses many allusions to works that influenced him in his studies, including Provençal and late Victorian poets. Pound adopts Robert Browning’s technique of dramatic monologues, appearing to speak in the voices of historical or legendary figures, reflecting the spiritualism common of the period.

Pound dedicated A Lume Spento to a close friend, William Brooke Smith, a Philadelphia artist, who recently died of tuberculosis. The two had first met in 1901 and Smith, an avid reader, introduced Pound to the works of English decadents such as Oscar Wilde and Aubrey Beardsley.

After completing the poems, Pound attempted to find an American company to publish the collection. He thought that it would impress the publisher Thomas Bird Mosher, though he was mistaken, when Mosher refused to acknowledge the then-unknown poet. Unsuccessful with finding an American publisher, by February 1908 Pound had left for Europe, first arriving in Gibraltar, then moving on to Venice, where he eventually self-published A Lume Spento in July 1908, with the printer A. Antonini.

Upon arriving in Venice, Pound reportedly had only $80 to his name; $8 of this was spent printing A Lume Spento. Paper for this first printing was reportedly leftover from the Venetian press’ recent history of the Church and Pound supervised the printing process himself and only 150 copies were printed. He was not confident of the quality of the work and even considered at one point dumping the proofs into a canal.

By October 1908, Pound’s work had begun to receive critical acclaim, both in the press and amongst the literary community. In a review of the collection, the London Evening Standard called it “wild and haunting stuff, absolutely poetic, original, imaginative, passionate, and spiritual”.

The first edition

CONTENTS

GRACE BEFORE SONG

NOTE PRECEDENT TO “LA FRAISNE.”

LA FRAISNE

CINO

IN EPITAPHIUM EIUS

NA AUDIART

VILLONAUD FOR THIS YULE

A VILLONAUD. BALLAD OF THE GIBBET

MESMERISM

FIFINE ANSWERS

ANIMA SOLA

IN TEMPORE SENECTUTIS

FAMAM LIBROSQUE CANO

THE CRY OF THE EYES

SCRIPTOR IGNOTUS

VANA

THAT PASS BETWEEN THE FALSE DAWN AND THE TRUE

IN MORTE DE

THRENOS

BALLAD ROSALIND

MALRIN

MASKS

ON HIS OWN FACE IN A GLASS

INVERN

PLOTINUS

PROMETHEUS

AEGUPTON

BALLAD FOR GLOOM

FOR E. McC.

SALVE O PONTIFEX!

TO THE DAWN: DEFIANCE

THE DECADENCE

REDIVIVUS

FISTULAE

SONG: LOVE THOU THY DREAM

MOTIF

LA REGINA AVRILLOUSE

A ROUSE

NICOTINE

IN TEMPORE SENECTUTIS

OLTRE LA TORRE: ROLANDO

This Book was

LA FRAISNE

(THE ASH TREE)

dedicated

to such us love this samebeauty that I love, somewhatafter mine own fashion.

But sith one of them has gone out very quickly from amongstus it given

A LUME SPENTO

(WITH TAPERS QUENCHED)

in memoriam eius mihi caritate primus

William Brooke Smith

Painter, Dreamer of dreams.

GRACE BEFORE SONG

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

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.

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 trans-sentient 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 tho 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) (egare).

LA FRAISNE

(Scene: The Ash Wood of Malvern)For I was a gaunt, grave councilorBeing in all things wise, and very old,But I have put aside this folly and the coldThat old age weareth for a cloak.

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

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

By the still pool of Mar-nan-othaHave I found me a brideThat was a dog-wood tree some syne.She hath called me from mine old 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 leafAnd left them under a stoneAnd now men call me mad because I have thrownAll folly from me, putting it asideTo leave the old barren ways of men,Because my brideIs a pool of the wood andTho all men say that I am madIt is only that I am glad,Very glad, for my bride hath toward me a great loveThat is sweeter than the love of womenThat plague and burn and drive one away.

Aie-e. ’Tis true that I am gayQuite gay, for I have her alone hereAnd no man troubleth us.

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

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

I do not like to remember things any more.I like one little band of winds that blowIn the ash trees here:For we are quite aloneHere mid the ash trees.

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 tuneingOnce for Wind-runeingThey dream us-toward andSighing, say “Would Cino,“Passionate Cino, of the wrinkling eyes,“Gay Cino, of quick laughter,“Cino, of the dare, the jibe,“Frail Cino, strongest of his 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, youWere Lack-land Cino, e’en as I amO 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.

“‘Polio Phoibee, old tin pan youGlory to Zeus’ aegis-dayShield o’steel-blue, th’ heaven o’er usHath for boss thy lustre gay!

‘Polio Phoibee, to our way-fareMake thy laugh our wander-lied;Bid thy ‘fulgence bear away care.Cloud and rain-tears pass they fleet!

Seeking e’er the new-laid rast-wayTo the gardens of the sun....

I have sung women in three citiesBut it is all one.

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

IN EPITAPHIUM EIUS

Servant and singer, TroubadourThat for his loving, loved each fair face moreThan craven sluggard can his life’s one love,

Dowered with love, “whereby the sun doth moveAnd all the stars.”They called him fickle that the lambent flameCaught “Bice” dreaming in each new-blown name,

And loved all fairness the its hidden guiseLurked various in half an hundred eyes;

That loved the essence the each casement boreA different semblance than the one before.

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 “altho 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.”

Tho thou well dost wish me illAudiart, Audiart,

Where thy bodice laces startAs ivy fingers clutching thruIts crevices,

Audiart, Audiart,

Stately, tall and lovely tenderWho shall render     Audiart, AudiartPraises 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 hopeThat thou shouldst....

     Nay no whit

Bespeak thyself for anything.Just a word in thy praise, girl,Just for the swirlThy satins make upon the stair,‘Cause never a flaw was thereWhere thy torse and limbs are met:Tho thou hate me, read it setIn rose and gold,Or when the minstrel, tale half toldShall burst to lilting at the phrase“Audiart, Audiart”....

Bertrans, master of his lays,Bertrans of Aultaforte thy praiseSets forth, and the thou hate me well,Yea the thou wish me illAudiart, AudiartThy loveliness is here writ till,Audiart,

Oh, till thou come again.And being bent and wrinkled, in a formThat hath no perfect limning, when the warmYouth dew is coldUpon thy hands, and thy old soulScorning a new, wry’d casementChurlish at seemed misplacementFinds the earth as bitterAs now seems it sweet,Being so young and fairAs then only in dreams,Being then young and wry’d,Broken of ancient prideThou shalt then softenKnowing I know not howThou wert once she     Audiart, AudiartFor whose fairness one forgaveAudiart, AudiartQue be-m vols mal.

VILLONAUD FOR THIS YULE

Towards the Noel that morte saison(Christ make the shepherds’ homage dear!)Then when the grey wolves everychoneDrink of the winds their chill small-beerAnd lap o’ the snows food’s gueredonThen makyth my heart his yule-tide cheer(Skoal! with the dregs if the clear be gone!)Wineing the ghosts of yester-year.

Ask ye what ghosts I dream upon?(What of the magians’ scented gear?)The ghosts of dead loves everyoneThat make the stark winds reek with fearLest love return with the foison sunAnd slay the memories that me cheer(Such as I drink to mine fashion)Wineing the ghosts of yester-year.

Where are the joys my heart had won?(Saturn and Mars to Zeus drawn near!)Where are the lips mine lay upon,Aye! where are the glances feat and clearThat bade my heart his valor don?I skoal to the eyes as grey-blown mere(Who knows whose was that paragon?)Wineing the ghosts of yester-year.

Prince: ask me not what I have doneNor what God hath that can me cheerBut ye ask first where the winds are goneWineing the ghosts of yester-year.

A VILLONAUD. BALLAD OF THE GIBBET

Or the Song of the Sixth Companion

(Scene: “En cest bourdel oil tenons nostre 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: “Freres humains qui apres nous vivez.”

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

Fat Pierre with the hook gauche-main,Thomas Larron “Ear-the-less,”Tybalde and that armouressWho gave this poignard its premier stainPinning the Guise that had been fainTo make him a mate of the “Flault Noblesse.”And bade her be out with ill addressAs a fool that mocketh his drue’s disdeign.

Drink we a skoal for the gallows tree!Francois and Margot and thee and me,Drink we to Marienne Ydole,That hell brenn not her o’er cruelly.

Drink we the lusty robbers twain,Black is the pitch o’ their wedding dress,Lips shrunk back for the wind’s caressAs lips shrink back when we feel the strainOf love that loveth in hell’s disdeignAnd sense the teeth thru the lips that press‘Gainst our lips for the soul’s distressThat striveth to ours across the pain.

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

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

But drink we skoal to the gallows tree!Francois and Margot and thee and me:

These that we loved shall God love lessAnd smite alway at their faibleness?

Skoal!! to the Gallows! and then pray we:God damn his hell out speedilyAnd bring their souls to his “Haulte Citee.”

MESMERISM

        “And a cat’s in the water-butt.”                   Robt. Browning, Mesmerism

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

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

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

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

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

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 shameAnd known the torture of the Skull-place hoursFree and so bound, that mingled with the powersOf air and sea and light his soul’s far reachYet strictured did the body-lips beseech“To drink”: “I thirst.” And then the sponge of gall.

Wherefor we wastrels that the grey road’s callDoth master and make slaves and yet make free,Drink all of life and quaffing lustilyTake bitter with the sweet without complainAnd sharers in his drink defy the painThat makes you fearful to unfurl your souls.

We claim no glory. If the tempest rollsAbout us we have fear, and thenHaving so small a stake grow bold again.We know not definitely even thisBut ‘cause some vague half knowing half doth missOur consciousness and leaves us feelingThat somehow all is well, that sober, reelingFrom the last carouse, or in what measureOf so called right or so damned wrong our leisureRuns out uncounted sand beneath the sun,That, spite your carping, still the thing is doneWith some deep sanction, that, we know not how,Without our thought gives feeling; You allowThat ’tis not need we know our every thoughtOr see the work shop where each mask is wroughtWherefrom we view the world of box and pit,Careless of wear, just so the mask shall fitAnd serve our jape’s turn for a night or two.

Call! eh bye! the little door at twelve!

I meet you there myself.

ANIMA SOLA

“Then neither is the bright orb of the sun greeted nor yet shaggy might of earth or sea, thus then, in the firm vessel of harmony is fixed God, a sphere, round, rejoicing in complex solitude.” EMPEDOKLES

Exquisite lonelinessBound of mine own capriceI fly on the wings of an unknown chordThat ye hear not,Can not discern.My music is weird and untamedBarbarous, wild, extreme,I fly on the note that ye hear notOn the chord that ye can not dream.And lo, your out-worn harmonies are behind meAs ashes and mouldy bread,I die in the tears of the morningI kiss the wail of the dead.My joy is the wind of heaven.My drink is the gall of night,My love is the light of meteors,The autumn leaves in flight.

I pendant sit in the vale of fateI twine the Maenad strandsAnd lo, the three EumenidesTake justice at my hands.For I fly in the gale of an unknown chord.The blood of light is God’s delightAnd I am the life blood’s ward.

O Loneliness, O Loneliness,Thou boon of the fires blownFrom heaven to hell and back againThou cup of the God-man’s own!For I am a weird untamedThat eat of no man’s meatMy house is the rain ye wail againstMy drink is the wine of sleet.

My music is your disharmonyIntangible, most mad,For the clang of a thousand cymbalsWhere the sphinx smiles o’er the sand,And viol strings that out-sing kingsAre the least of my command.Exquisite, alone, untrammeledI kiss the nameless signAnd the laws of my inmost beingChant to the nameless shrine.I flee on the wing of a note ye know not,My music disowns your law,Ye can not tread the road I wed

And lo! I refuse your bidding.I will not bow to the expectation that ye have.Lo! I am gone as a red flame into the mist,My chord is unresolved by your counter-harmonies.

IN TEMPORE SENECTUTIS

For we are oldAnd the earth passion dyeth;We have watched him die a thousand times,When he wanes an old wind cryeth,For we are oldAnd passion hath died for us a thousand timesBut we grew never weary.

Memory faileth, as the lotus-loved chimesSink into fluttering of wind,But we grow never wearyFor we are old.The strange night-wonder of your eyesDies not, the passion flyethAlong the star fields of ArcturusAnd is no more unto our hands;My lips are coldAnd yet we twain are never weary,And the strange night-wonder is upon us,The leaves hold our wonder in their flutterings,The wind fills our mouths with strange wordsFor our wonder that grows not old.

The moth hour of our day is upon usHolding the dawn;There is strange Night-wonder in our eyesBecause the Moth-Hour leadeth the dawnAs a maiden, holding her fingers,The rosy, slender fingers of the dawn.

He:— “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:— “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 mothersWill sing them in the twilight,And when the nightShrinketh the kiss of the dawnThat loves and kills,What time the swallow fillsHer note, then the little rabbit folkThat some call children,Such as are up and wideWill laugh your verses to each other,Pulling on their shoes for the day’s business,Serious child business that the worldLaughs at, and grows stale;Such is the tale — Part of it — of thy song-life.

Mine?

A book is known by them that readThat same. Thy public in my screedIs listed. Well! Some score years henceBehold mine audience,As we had seen him yesterday.

Scrawny, be-spectacled, out at heels,Such an one as the world feelsA sort of curse against its guzzlingAnd its age-lasting wallow for red greedAnd yet; full speedTho it should run for its own getting,Will turn aside to sneer at‘Cause he hathNo coin, no will to snatch the aftermathOf Mammon.Such an one as women draw away fromFor the tobacco ashes scattered on his coatAnd sith his throatShows razor’s unfamiliarityAnd three days’ beard;

Such an one picking a raggedBackless copy from the stall,Too cheap for cataloguing,Loquitur,“Ah-eh! the strange rare name....“Ah-eh! He must be rare if even I have not...And lost mid-pageSuch ageAs his pardons the habit,He analyzes form and thought to seeHow I ‘scaped immortality.

THE CRY OF THE EYES

Rest Master, for we be aweary, wearyAnd would feel the fingers of the windUpon these lids that lie over usSodden and lead-heavy.Rest brother, for lo! the dawn is without!The yellow flame palethAnd the wax runs low.Free us, for without be goodly colors,Green of the wood-moss and flower colors,And coolness beneath the trees.Free us, for we perishIn this ever-flowing monotonyOf ugly print marks, blackUpon white parchment.Free us, for there is oneWhose smile more availethThan all the age-old knowledge of thy books:And we would look thereon.

SCRIPTOR IGNOTUS

To K. R. H.     Ferrara 1715

When I see thee as some poor song-birdBattering its wings, against this cage we call Today,Then would I speak comfort unto thee,From out the heights I dwell in, whenThat great sense of power is upon meAnd I see my greater soul-self bendingSibylwise with that great forty-year epicThat you know of, yet unwritBut as some child’s toy ‘tween my fingers,And see the sculptors of new ages carve me thus,And model with the music of my couplets in their hearts:Surely if in the end the epicAnd the small kind deed are one;If to God, the child’s toy and the epic are the same.E’en so, did one make a child’s toy,Fie might wright it wellAnd cunningly, that the child mightKeep it for his children’s childrenAnd all have joy thereof.

Dear, an this dream come true,Then shall all men say of thee“She ’twas that played him power at life’s morn,And at the twilight Evensong,And God’s peace dwelt in the mingled chordsShe drew from out the shadows of the past,And old world melodies that elseHe had known only in his dreamsOf Iseult and of Beatrice.”

Dear, an this dream come true,I, who being poet only,Can give thee poor words only,Add this one poor other tribute,This thing men call immortality.A gift I give thee even as Ronsard gave it.Seeing before time, one sweet face grown old,And seeing the old eyes grow brightFrom out the border of Her fire-lit wrinkles,As she should make boast unto her maids“Ronsard hath sung the beauty, 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 striveTo give it thee?

All ends of things are with HimFrom whom are all things in their essence.If my power be lesserShall my striving be less keen?But rather more! if I would reach the goal,Take then the striving!“And if,” for so the Florentine hath writWhen having put all his heartInto his “Youth’s Dear Book.”He yet strove to do more honorTo that lady dwelling in his inmost soul,He would wax yet greaterTo make her earthly glory more.Though sight of hell and heaven wereprice thereof,If so it be His will, with whomAre all things and through whomAre all things good,Will I make for thee and for the beauty of thy musicA new thingAs hath not heretofore been writ.Take then my promise!

VANA

In vain have I strivento teach my heart to bow;In vain have I said to him“There be many singers greater than thou.”

But his answer cometh, as winds and as lutany,As a vague crying upon the nightThat leaveth me no rest, saying ever,“Song, a song.”

Their echoes play upon each other in the twilightSeeking ever a song.Lo, I am worn with travailAnd the wandering of many roads hath made my eyesAs dark red circles filled with dust.Yet there is a trembling upon me in the twilight,And little red elf words crying “A song,”Little grey elf 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 timeBlowing they know not whither, seeking a song.

THAT PASS BETWEEN THE FALSE DAWN AND THE TRUE

Blown of the winds whose goal is “No-man-knows.”As feathered seeds upon the wind are borne,To kiss as winds kiss and to melt as snowsAnd in our passing taste of all men’s scorn,Wraiths of a dream that fragrant ever blowsFrom out the night we know not to the morn,Borne upon winds whose goal is “No-man-knows.”An hour to each! We greet. The hour flowsAnd joins its hue to mighty hues out-wornWeaving the Perfect Picture, while we tornGive cry in harmony, and weep the RoseBlown of the winds whose goal is “No-man-knows.”

IN MORTE DE

Oh wine-sweet ghost how are we borne apartOf winds that restless blow we know not whereAs little shadows smoke-wraith-sudden startIf music break the freighted dream of air;So, fragile curledst thou in my dream-wracked heart,So, sudden summoned dost thou leave it bare.O wine-sweet ghost how are we borne apart!As little flames amid the dead coal dartAnd lost themselves upon some hidden stair,So futile elfin be we well awareOld cries I cry to thee as I depart,“O wine-sweet ghost how are we borne apart.”

THRENOS

No more for us the little sighingNo more the winds at twilight trouble us.Lo the fair dead!

No more do I burn.No more for us the fluttering of wingsThat whirred the air above us.

Lo the fair dead!

No more desire flayeth me,No more for us the tremblingAt the meeting of hands.

Lo the fair dead!

No more for us the wine of the lipsNo more for us the knowledge.

Lo the fair dead!

No more the torrentNo more for us the meeting-place(Lo the fair dead!)Tintagoel.

BALLAD ROSALIND

Our Lord is set in his great oak throneFor our old Lord liveth all aloneThese ten years and gone.

A book on his knees and bent his headFor our old Lord’s love is long since dead.These ten years and gone.

For our young Lord Hugh went to the East,And fought for the cross and is crows’ feastThese ten years and gone.

“But where is our Lady Rosalind,Fair as day and fleet as windThese ten years and gone?”

For our old Lord broodeth all aloneSilent and grey in his black oak throneThese ten years and gone.

Our old Lord broodeth silent thereFor to question him none will dareThese ten years and more.

Where is our Lady RosalindFair as dawn and fleet as wind.These ten years and gone?

Our old Lord sits with never a wordAnd only the flame and the wind are heardThese ten years and more.

“Father! I come,” and she knelt at the throne,“Father! know me, I am thine own.“These ten years and more

“Have they kept me for ransom at Chastel d’ Or“And never a word have I heard from thee“These ten years and more.”

But our Lord answered never a wordAnd only sobbing and wind were heard.(These ten years and gone.)

We took our Lord and his great oak throneAnd set them deep in a vault of stoneThese ten years and gone,

A book on his knees and bow’d his headFor the Lord of our old Lord’s love is deadThese ten years and gone,

And Lady Rosalind rules in his stead(Thank we God for our daily bread)These ten years and more.

MALRIN

Malrin, because of his jesting stood without, till all the guests were entered in unto the Lord’s house. Then there came an angel unto him saying, “Malrin, why hast thou tarried?”

To whom, Malrin, “There is no feeding till the last sheep be gone into the fold. Wherefor I stayed chaffing the laggards and mayhap when it was easy helping the weak.”

Saith the angel, “The Lord will be wroth with thee, Malrin, that thou art last.”

“Nay sirrah!” quipped Malrin, “I knew my Lord when thou and thy wings were yet in the egg.”

Saith the angel, “Peace! hasten lest there be no bread for thee, rattle-tongue.”

“Ho,” quoth Malrin, “is it thus that thou knowest my Lord? Aye! I am his fool and have felt his lash but meseems that thou hast set thy ignorance to my folly, saying ‘Hasten lest there be an end to his bread.’”

Whereat the angel went in in wrath. And Malrin, turning slowly, beheld the last blue of twilight and the sinking of the silver of the stars. And the suns sank down like cooling gold in their crucibles, and there was a murmuring amid the azure curtains and far clarions from the keep of heaven, as a Muezzin crying, “Allah akbar, Allah il Allah! it is finished.’”

And Malrin beheld the broidery of the stars become as wind-worn tapestries of ancient wars. And the memory of all old songs swept by him as an host blue-robed trailing in dream, Odysseus, and Tristram, and the pale great gods of storm, the mailed Campeador and Roland and Villon’s women and they of Valhalla; as a cascade of dull sapphires so poured they out of the mist and were gone. And above him the stronger clarion as a Muezzin crying “Allah akbar, Allah il Allah, it is finished.”

And again Malrin, drunk as with the dew of old world druidings, was bowed in dream. And the third dream of Malrin was the dream of the seven and no man knoweth it.

And a third time came the clarion and after it the Lord called softly unto Malrin, “Son, why hast thou tarried? Is it not fulfilled, thy dream and mine?”

And Malrin, “O Lord, I am thy fool and thy love hath been my scourge and my wonder, my wine and mine extasy. But one left me awroth and went in unto thy table. I tarried till his anger was blown out.”

“Oh Lord for the ending of our dream I kiss thee. For his anger is with the names of Deirdre and Ysolt. And our dream is ended, PADRE.”

MASKS

These tales of old disguisings, are they notStrange myths of souls that found themselves amongUnwonted folk that spake an hostile tongue,Some soul from all the rest who’d not forgotThe star-span acres of a former lotWhere boundless mid the clouds his course he swung,Or carnate with his elder brothers sungEre ballad-makers lisped of Camelot?

Old singers half-forgetful of their tunes,Old painters color-blind come back once more,Old poets skill-less in the wind-heart runes,Old wizards lacking in their wonder-lore:

All they that with strange sadness in their eyesPonder in silence o’er earth’s queynt devyse?

ON HIS OWN FACE IN A GLASS

O strange face there in the glass!

O ribald company, O saintly host!O sorrow-swept my fool,

What answer?O ye myriadThat strive and play and pass,Jest, challenge, counterlie,

I         ?         I         ?         I         ?                                                  And ye?

INVERN

Earth’s winter comethAnd I being part of allAnd sith the spirit of all moveth in meI must needs bear earth’s winterDrawn cold and grey with hoursAnd joying in a momentary sun,Lo I am withered with waiting till my spring cometh!Or crouch covetous of warmthO’er scant-logged ingle blaze,Must take cramped joy in tomed LonginusThat, read I him first timeThe woods agleam with summerOr mid desirous winds of spring,Had set me singing spheresOr made heart to wander forth among warm rosesOr curl in grass nest neath a kindly moon.

PLOTINUS

As one that would draw thru the node of things,Back sweeping to the vortex of the cone,Cloistered about with memories, aloneIn chaos, while the waiting silence sings:

Obliviate of cycles’ wanderingsI was an atom on creation’s throneAnd knew all nothing my unconquered own.God! Should I be the hand upon the strings?!

But I was lonely as a lonely child.I cried amid the void and heard no cry,And then for utter loneliness, made INew thoughts as crescent images of me.And with them was my essence reconciledWhile fear went forth from mine eternity.

PROMETHEUS

For we be the beaten wandsAnd the bearers of the flame.Our selves have died lang syne, and weGo ever upward as the sparks of lightEnkindling all‘Gainst whom our shadows fall.

Weary to sink, yet ever upward borne,Flame, flame that riseth everTo the flame within the sun,Tearing our casement everFor the way is oneThat beareth upwardTo the flame within the sun.

AEGUPTON

I — even I — am he who knoweth the roadsThru the sky and the wind thereof is my body.

I have beheld the Lady of Life.I, even I, that fly with the swallows.

Green and grey is her raimentTrailing along the wind.

I — even I — am he who knoweth the roadsThru the sky and the wind thereof is my body.

Manus animam pinxit — My pen is in my hand

To write the acceptable word,My mouth to chaunt the pure singing:

Who hath the mouth to receive it?The Song of the Lotus of Kumi?I — even I — am he who knoweth the roads