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Title: Provença
        Poems selected from Personae, Exultations, and Canzoniere of Ezra Pound

Author: Ezra Pound

Release date: June 27, 2025 [eBook #76403]

Language: English

Original publication: Boston: Small, Maynard and Company, 1910

Credits: Sean Robson and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive)


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PROVENÇA ***





                       PROVENÇA

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

         [Illustration: SCIRE · QVOD SCIENDVM]

                        BOSTON
              SMALL, MAYNARD AND COMPANY
                      PUBLISHERS

                  _Copyright, 1910_,
                     BY EZRA POUND

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




CONTENTS


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

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

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




PERSONAE

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

TO MARY MOORE




LA FRAISNE[1]


SCENE: _The Ash Wood of Malvern_.

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

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

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

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

    Naught but the wind that flutters in the leaves.

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

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

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

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

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

    I do not like to remember things any more.

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

[1] Prefatory note at end of the volume.




CINO


ITALIAN CAMPAGNA 1309, THE OPEN-ROAD


    Bah! I have sung women in three cities,
    But it is all the same;
    And I will sing of the sun.

    Lips, words, and you snare them,
    Dreams, words, and they are as jewels,
    Strange spells of old deity,
    Ravens, nights, allurement:
    And they are not;
    Having become the souls of song.

    Eyes, dreams, lips, and the night goes.
    Being upon the road once more,
    They are not.
    Forgetful in their towers of our tuneing
    Once for Wind-runeing
    They dream us-toward and
    Sighing, say, “Would Cino,
    Passionate Cino, of the wrinkling eyes,
    Gay Cino, of quick laughter,
    Cino, of the dare, the jibe,
    Frail Cino, strongest of his tribe
    That tramp old ways beneath the sunlight,
    Would Cino of the Luth were here!”

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

    But you “My Lord,” God’s pity!
    And all I knew were out, My Lord, you
    Were Lack-land Cino, e’en as I am,
    O Sinistro.

    I have sung women in three cities.
    But it is all one.
    I will sing of the sun.
    .... eh? .... they mostly had grey eyes,
    But it is all one, I will sing of the sun.

        “’Pollo Phoibee, old tin pan, you
        Glory to Zeus’ ægis-day,
        Shield o’ steel-blue, th’ heaven o’er us
        Hath for boss thy lustre gay!

        ’Pollo Phoibee, to our way-fare
        Make thy laugh our wander-lied;
        Bid thy ’fulgence bear away care.
        Cloud and rain-tears pass they fleet!

        Seeking e’er the new-laid rast-way
        To the gardens of the sun

       *       *       *       *       *

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

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




NA AUDIART


“QUE BE-M VOLS MAL”

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


    “Though thou well dost wish me ill,”
                            Audiart, Audiart,
    Where thy bodice laces start
    As ivy fingers clutching through
    Its crevices,
                  Audiart, Audiart,
    Stately, tall and lovely tender
    Who shall render,
                      Audiart, Audiart,
    Praises meet unto thy fashion?
    Here a word kiss!
                      Pass I on
    Unto Lady “Miels-de-Ben,”
    Having praised thy girdle’s scope,
    How the stays ply back from it;
    I breathe no hope
    That thou shouldst ....
                            Nay, no whit
    Bespeak thyself for anything.
    Just a word in thy praise, girl,
    Just for the swirl
    Thy satins make upon the stair,
    ’Cause never a flaw was there
    Where thy torse and limbs are met:
    Though thou hate me, read it set
    In rose and gold.[2]
    Or when the minstrel, tale half told,
    Shall burst to lilting at the phrase
                              “Audiart, Audiart” ....

    Bertrans, master of his lays,
    Bertrans of Aultaforte thy praise
    Sets forth, and though thou hate me well,
    Yea, though thou wish me ill,
                                Audiart, Audiart
    Thy loveliness is here writ till,
                                      Audiart,
    Oh, till thou come again.[3]
    And being bent and wrinkled, in a form
    That hath no perfect limning, when the warm
    Youth dew is cold
    Upon thy hands, and thy old soul,
    Scorning a new, wry’d casement,
    Churlish at seemed misplacement,
    Finds the earth as bitter
    As now seems it sweet,
    Being so young and fair
    As then only in dreams—
    Being then young and wry’d,
    Broken of ancient pride,
    Thou shalt then soften,
    Knowing I know not how
    Thou wert once she,
                        Audiart, Audiart,
    For whose fairness one forgave,
                                    Audiart, Audiart
    Que be-m vols mal.

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

[3] _Reincarnate._




VILLONAUD FOR THIS YULE


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

    Ask ye what ghosts I dream upon?
    (_What of the magians’ scented gear?_)
    The ghosts of dead loves everyone
    That make the stark winds reek with fear
    Lest love return with the foison sun
    And slay the memories that me cheer
    (Such as I drink to mine fashion)
    Wineing the ghosts of yester-year.

    Where are the joys my heart had won?
    (_Saturn and Mars to Zeus drawn near!_)[4]
    Where are the lips mine lay upon,
    Aye! where are the glances feat and clear
    That bade my heart his valour don?
    I skoal to the eyes as grey-blown mere
    (Who knows whose was that paragon?)
    Wineing the ghosts of yester-year.

    Prince: ask me not what I have done,
    Nor what God hath that can me cheer,
    But ye ask first where the winds are gone
    Wineing the ghosts of yester-year.

[4] _Signum Nativitatis._




A VILLONAUD, BALLAD OF THE GIBBET

OR, THE SONG OF THE SIXTH COMPANION


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

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

                   “_Frères humains qui après nous vivez._”

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

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

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

        Drink we the lusty robbers twain,
    Black is the pitch o’ their wedding dress,[5]
    Lips shrunk back for the wind’s caress
    As lips shrink back when we feel the strain
    Of love that loveth in hell’s disdeign
    And sense the teeth through the lips that press
    ’Gainst our lips for the soul’s distress
    That striveth to ours across the pain.

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

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

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

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

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




MESMERISM


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

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

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

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

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

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




FAMAM LIBROSQUE CANO


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

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

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

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

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




IN TEMPORE SENECTUTIS


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

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

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

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

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

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

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




CAMARADERIE


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

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

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

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




FOR E. McC.


THAT WAS MY COUNTER-BLADE UNDER LEONARDO TERRONE, MASTER OF FENCE

    Gone while your tastes were keen to you,
    Gone where the grey winds call to you,
    By that high fencer, even Death,
    Struck of the blade that no man parrieth;
    Such is your fence, one saith,
        One that hath known you.
    Drew you your sword most gallantly,
    Made you your pass most valiantly
        ’Gainst that grey fencer, even Death.

    Gone as a gust of breath
    Faith! no man tarrieth,
    “_Se il cor ti manca_,” but it failed thee not!
    “_Non ti fidar_,” it is the sword that speaks
    “_In me._”[6]

    Thou trusted’st in thyself and met the blade
    ’Thout mask or gauntlet, and art laid
    As memorable broken blades that be
    Kept as bold trophies of old pageantry.
    As old Toledos past their days of war
    Are kept mnemonic of the strokes they bore,
    So art thou with us, being good to keep
    In our heart’s sword-rack, though thy sword-arm sleep.

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

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




BALLAD FOR GLOOM


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

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

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

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

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

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

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




AT THE HEART O’ ME


A. D. 751

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

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

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

[7] Anglo-Saxon, “Earth.”




THE TREE


From “A Lume Spento.”

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




AN IDYL FOR GLAUCUS


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


I

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

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

II

    They chide me that the skein I used to spin
    Holds not my interest now,
    They mock me at the route. Well, I have come again.
    Last night I saw three white forms move,
    Out past the utmost wave that bears the white foam crest.
    I somehow knew that he was one of them.

    Oimè, Oimè! I think each time they come
    Up from the sea heart to our realm of air
    They are more far-removèd from the shore.
    When first I found him here, he slept
    E’en as he might after a long night’s taking on the deep,
    And when he woke some whit the old kind smile
    Dwelt round his lips and held him near to me.
    But then strange gleams shot through the grey-deep eyes
    As though he saw beyond and saw not me,
    And when he moved to speak it troubled him.
    And then he plucked at grass and bade me eat.
    And then forgot me for the sea its charm
    And leapt him in the wave and so was gone.

III

    I wonder why he mocked me with the grass.
    I know not any more how long it is
    Since I have dwelt not in my mother’s house.
    I know they think me mad, for all night long
    I haunt the sea-marge, thinking I may find
    Some day the herb he offered unto me.
    Perhaps he did not jest; they say some simples have
    More wide-spanned power than old wives draw from them.
    Perhaps, found I this grass, he’d come again.
    Perhaps ’tis some strange charm to draw him here,
    ’Thout which he may not leave his new-found crew
    That ride the two-foot coursers of the deep,
    And laugh in storms and break the fishers’ nets.
    Oimè, Oimè!

                            SONG
                    _Voices in the Wind._

    We have worn the blue and vair,
    And all the sea-caves
    Know us of old, and know our new-found mate.
    There’s many a secret stair
    The sea-folk climb ...

                   _Out of the Wind._

            Oimè, Oimè!

    I wonder why the wind, even the wind doth seem
    To mock me now, all night, all night, and
    I have 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




MARVOIL[8]


    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 deëst._

[8] See note at 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.




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!

    High 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, Raana, 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 stag, 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?




EXULTATIONS


    _I am an eternal spirit and the things I make are but ephemera,_
           _yet I endure:_
    _Yea, and the little earth crumbles beneath our feet_
           _and we endure._




TO CARLOS TRACY CHESTER




NIGHT LITANY


    O Dieu, purifiez nos cœurs!
            Purifiez nos cœurs!

    Yea, the lines hast thou laid unto me
                  in pleasant places,
    And the beauty of this thy Venice
                  hast thou shown unto me
    Until is its loveliness become unto me
                  a thing of tears.

    O God, what great kindness
                  have we done in times past
                  and forgotten it,
    That thou givest this wonder unto us,
                  O God of waters?

    O God of the night,
                  What great sorrow
    Cometh unto us,
                  That thou thus repayest us
    Before the time of its coming?

    O God of silence,
                  Purifiez nos cœurs,
                  Purifiez nos cœurs,
    For we have seen
    The glory of the shadow of the
        likeness of thine handmaid,
    Yea, the glory of the shadow
        of thy Beauty hath walked
    Upon the shadow of the waters
        In this thy Venice.
                  And before the holiness
    Of the shadow of thy handmaid
        Have I hidden mine eyes,
                  O God of waters.

    O God of silence,
                  Purifiez nos cœurs,
                  Purifiez nos cœurs,
    O God of waters,
                  make clean our hearts within us
    And our lips to show forth thy praise,
                  For I have seen the
    Shadow of this thy Venice
    Floating upon the waters,
                  And thy stars
    Have seen this thing, out of their far courses
    Have they seen this thing,
                  O God of waters,
    Even as are thy stars
    Silent unto us in their far-coursing,
    Even so is mine heart
        become silent within me.

                  _Purifiez nos cœurs,_
    _O God of the silence,_
                  _Purifiez nos cœurs,_
    _O God of waters._




SESTINA: ALTAFORTE


    Loquitur: _En_ Bertrans de Born.
    Dante Alighieri put this man in hell for that he was a stirrer-up
          of strife.
    Eccovi!
    Judge ye!
    Have I dug him up again?
    The scene is at his castle, Altaforte. “Papiols” is his jongleur.
    The “Leopard,” the _device_ of Richard (Cœur de Lion).

I

    Damn it all! all this our South stinks peace.
    You whoreson dog, Papiols, come! Let’s to music!
    I have no life save when the swords clash.
    But ah! when I see the standards gold, vair, purple, opposing
    And the broad fields beneath them turn crimson,
    Then howl I my heart nigh mad with rejoicing.

II

    In hot summer have I great rejoicing
    When the tempests kill the earth’s foul peace,
    And the lightnings from black heav’n flash crimson,
    And the fierce thunders roar me their music
    And the winds shriek through the clouds mad, opposing,
    And through all the riven skies God’s swords clash.

III

    Hell grant soon we hear again the swords clash!
    And the shrill neighs of destriers in battle rejoicing,
    Spiked breast to spiked breast opposing!
    Better one hour’s stour than a year’s peace
    With fat boards, bawds, wine and frail music!
    Bah! there’s no wine like the blood’s crimson!

IV

    And I love to see the sun rise blood-crimson.
    And I watch his spears through the dark clash
    And it fills all my heart with rejoicing
    And pries wide my mouth with fast music
    When I see him so scorn and defy peace,
    His lone might ’gainst all darkness opposing.

V

    The man who fears war and squats opposing
    My words for stour, hath no blood of crimson,
    But is fit only to rot in womanish peace
    Far from where worth’s won and the swords clash
    For the death of such sluts I go rejoicing;
    Yea, I fill all the air with my music.

VI

    Papiols, Papiols, to the music!
    There’s no sound like to swords swords opposing,
    No cry like the battle’s rejoicing
    When our elbows and swords drip the crimson
    And our charges ’gainst “The Leopard’s” rush clash.
    May God damn for ever all who cry “Peace!”

VII

    And let the music of the swords make them crimson!
    Hell grant soon we hear again the swords clash!
    Hell blot black for alway the thought “Peace!”




BALLAD OF THE GOODLY FERE[9]


SIMON ZELOTES SPEAKETH IT SOMEWHILE AFTER THE CRUCIFIXION

    Ha’ we lost the goodliest fere o’ all
    For the priests and the gallows tree?
    Aye lover he was of brawny men,
    O’ ships and the open sea.

    When they came wi’ a host to take Our Man
    His smile was good to see,
    “First let these go!” quo’ our Goodly Fere,
    “Or I’ll see ye damned,” says he.

    Aye he sent us out through the crossed high spears
    And the scorn of his laugh rang free,
    “Why took ye not me when I walked about
    Alone in the town?” says he.

    Oh we drank his “Hale” in the good red wine
    When we last made company,
    No capon priest was the Goodly Fere,
    But a man o’ men was he.

    I ha’ seen him drive a hundred men
    Wi’ a bundle o’ cords swung free,
    That they took the high and holy house
    For their pawn and treasury.

    They’ll no’ get him a’ in a book, I think,
    Though they write it cunningly;
    No mouse of the scrolls was the Goodly Fere,
    But aye loved the open sea.

    If they think they ha’ snared our Goodly Fere
    They are fools to the last degree.
    “I’ll go to the feast,” quo’ our Goodly Fere,
    “Though I go to the gallows tree.”

    “Ye ha’ seen me heal the lame and blind,
    And wake the dead,” says he,
    “Ye shall see one thing to master all:
    ’Tis how a brave man dies on the tree.”

    A son of God was the Goodly Fere
    That bade us his brothers be.
    I ha’ seen him cow a thousand men.
    I have seen him upon the tree.

    He cried no cry when they drave the nails
    And the blood gushed hot and free,
    The hounds of the crimson sky gave tongue
    But never a cry cried he.

    I ha’ seen him cow a thousand men
    On the hills o’ Galilee,
    They whined as he walked out calm between,
    Wi’ his eyes like the grey o’ the sea.

    Like the sea that brooks no voyaging
    With the winds unleashed and free,
    Like the sea that he cowed at Genseret
    Wi’ twey words spoke’ suddently.

    A master of men was the Goodly Fere,
    A mate of the wind and sea,
    If they think they ha’ slain our Goodly Fere
    They are fools eternally.

    I ha’ seen him eat o’ the honey-comb
    Sin’ they nailed him to the tree.

[9] Fere = Mate, Companion.




PORTRAIT


From “La Mère Inconnue.”

    Now would I weave her portrait out of all dim splendour.
    Of Provence and far halls of memory,
    Lo, there come echoes, faint diversity
    Of blended bells at even’s end, or
    As the distant seas should send her
    The tribute of their trembling, ceaselessly
    Resonant. Out of all dreams that be,
    Say, shall I bid the deepest dreams attend her?

    Nay! For I have seen the purplest shadows stand
    Alway with reverent chere that looked on her,
    Silence himself is grown her worshipper
    And ever doth attend her in that land
    Wherein she reigneth, wherefore let there stir
    Naught but the softest voices, praising her.




THE EYES


    Rest, Master, for we be a-weary, weary,
    And would feel the fingers of the wind
    Upon these lids that lie over us
    Sodden and lead-heavy.

        Rest, brother, for lo! the dawn is without!
    The yellow flame paleth
    And the wax runs low.

    Free us, for without be goodly colours,
    Green of the wood-moss and flower-colours,
    And coolness beneath the trees.

        Free us, for we perish
    In this ever-flowing monotony
    Of ugly print marks, black
    Upon white parchment.

        Free us, for there is one
    Whose smile more availeth
    Than all the age-old knowledge of thy books:
    And we would look thereon.




NILS LYKKE


    “Beautiful, infinite memories
    That are a-plucking at my heart,
    Why will you be ever calling and a-calling,
    And a-murmuring in the dark there?
    And a-reaching out your long hands
    Between me and my beloved?

    “And why will you be ever a-casting
    The black shadow of your beauty
    On the white face of my beloved
    And a-glinting in the pools of her eyes?”




“FAIR HELENA” BY RACKHAM


“_What I love best in all the world?_”

    When the purple twilight is unbound,
    To watch her slow, tall grace
                  and its wistful loveliness,
    And to know her face
                  is in the shadow there,
    Just by two stars beneath that cloud—
    The soft, dim cloud of her hair,
    And to think my voice
                  can reach to her
    As but the rumour of some tree-bound stream,
    Heard just beyond the forest’s edge,
    Until she all forgets I am,
    And knows of me
    Naught but my dream’s felicity.




GREEK EPIGRAM


    Day and night are never weary,
    Nor yet is God of creating
    For day and night their torch-bearers,
    The aube and the crepuscule.

    So, when I weary of praising the dawn and the sunset,
    Let me be no more counted among the immortals;
    But number me amid the wearying ones,
    Let me be a man as the herd,
    And as the slave that is given in barter.




HISTRION


    No man hath dared to write this thing as yet,
    And yet I know, how that the souls of all men great
    At times pass through us,
    And we are melted into them, and are not
    Save reflexions of their souls.
    Thus am I Dante for a space and am
    One François Villon, ballad-lord and thief
    Or am such holy ones I may not write,
    Lest blasphemy be writ against my name;
    This for an instant and the flame is gone.

    ’Tis as in midmost us there glows a sphere
    Translucent, molten gold, that is the “I”
    And into this some form projects itself:
    Christus, or John, or eke the Florentine;
    And as the clear space is not if a form’s
    Imposed thereon,
    So cease we from all being for the time,
    And these, the Masters of the Soul, live on.




PARACELSUS IN EXCELSIS


    “Being no longer human, why should I
    Pretend humanity or don the frail attire?
    Men have I known and men, but never one
    Was grown so free an essence, or become
    So simply element as what I am.
    The mist goes from the mirror and I see!
    Behold! the world of forms is swept beneath—
    Turmoil grown visible beneath our peace,
    And we that are grown formless rise above,
    Fluids intangible that have been men,
    We seem as statues round whose high risen base
    Some overflowing river is run mad;
    In us alone the element of calm!




A SONG OF THE VIRGIN MOTHER


_In “Los Pastores de Belen.”_

From the Spanish of Lope de Vega.

    As ye go through these palm-trees,
    O holy angels;
    Sith sleepeth my child here
    Still ye the branches.

    O Bethlehem palm-trees
    That move to the anger
    Of winds in their fury,
    Tempestuous voices,
    Make ye no clamour,
    Run ye less swiftly,
    Sith sleepeth the child here
    Still ye your branches.

    He the divine child
    Is here a-wearied
    Of weeping the earth-pain,
    Here for his rest would he
    Cease from his mourning,
    Only a little while,
    Sith sleepeth this child here
    Stay ye the branches.

    Cold be the fierce winds,
    Treacherous round him.
    Ye see that I have not
    Wherewith to guard him,
    O angels, divine ones
    That pass us a-flying,
    Sith sleepeth my child here
    Stay ye the branches.

    _Ya veis que no tengo_
    _Con que guardarlo,_
    _O angeles santos_
    _Que vais volando_
    _Por que duerme mi niño_
    _Tened los ramos!_




SONG


    Love thou thy dream
    All base love scorning,
    Love thou the wind
    And here take warning
    That dreams alone can truly be,
    For ’tis in dream I come to thee.




PLANH FOR THE YOUNG ENGLISH KING


THAT IS, PRINCE HENRY PLANTAGENET, ELDER BROTHER TO RICHARD “CŒUR DE
LION”

From the Provençal of Bertrans de Born, “_Si tuit li dol elh plor elh
marrimen_.”

    If all the grief and woe and bitterness,
    All dolour, ill and every evil chance
    That ever came upon this grieving world
    Were set together, they would seem but light
    Against the death of the young English King.
    Worth lieth riven and Youth dolorous,
    The world o’ershadowed, soiled and overcast,
    Void of all joy and full of ire and sadness.

    Grieving and sad and full of bitterness
    Are left in teen the liegemen courteous,
    The joglars supple and the troubadours.
    O’er much hath ta’en Sir Death, that deadly warrior,
    In taking from them the young English King,
    Who made the freest hand seem covetous.
    ’Las! Never was nor will be in this world
    The balance for this loss in ire and sadness!

    O skilful Death and full of bitterness,
    Well mayst thou boast that thou the best chevalier
    That any folk e’er had, hast from us taken;
    Sith nothing is that unto worth pertaineth
    But had its life in the young English King,
    And better were it, should God grant his pleasure
    That he should live than many a living dastard
    That doth but wound the good with ire and sadness.

    From this faint world, now full of bitterness
    Love takes his way and holds his joy deceitful,
    Sith no thing is but turneth unto anguish
    And each to-day ’vails less than yestere’en,
    Let each man visage this young English King
    That was most valiant mid all worthiest men!
    Gone is his body fine and amorous,
    Whence have we grief, discord and deepest sadness.

    Him, whom it pleased for our great bitterness
    To come to earth to draw us from misventure,
    Who drank of death for our salvacioun,
    Him do we pray as to a Lord most righteous
    And humble eke, that the young English King
    He please to pardon, as true pardon is,
    And bid go in with honourèd companions
    There where there is no grief, nor shall be sadness.




ALBA INNOMINATA


From the Provençal.

    In a garden where the whitethorn spreads her leaves
    My lady hath her love lain close beside her,
    Till the warder cries the dawn—Ah dawn that grieves!
    Ah God! Ah God! That dawn should come so soon!

    “Please God that night, dear night, should never cease,
    Nor that my love should parted be from me,
    Nor watch cry ‘Dawn’—Ah dawn that slayeth peace!
    Ah God! Ah God! That dawn should come so soon!

    “Fair friend and sweet, thy lips! Our lips again
    Lo, in the meadow there the birds give song!
    Ours be the love and Jealousy’s the pain!
    Ah God! Ah God! That dawn should come so soon!

    “Sweet friend and fair, take we our joy again
    Down in the garden, where the birds are loud,
    Till the warder’s reed astrain
    Cry God! Ah God! That dawn should come so soon!

    “Of that sweet wind that comes from Far-Away
    Have I drunk deep of my Belovèd’s breath,
    Yea! of my Love’s that is so dear and gay.
    Ah God! Ah God! That dawn should come so soon!”

                  _Envoi_

    Fair is this damsel and right courteous,
    And many watch her beauty’s gracious ways.
    Her heart toward love is no wise traitorous.
    Ah God! Ah God! That dawn should come so soon!




LAUDANTES


I

    When your beauty is grown old in all men’s songs,
    And my poor words are lost amid that throng,
    Then you will know the truth of my poor words,
    And mayhap dreaming of the wistful throng
    That hopeless sigh your praises in their songs,
    You will think kindly then of these mad words.

II

    I am torn, torn with thy beauty,
    O Rose of the sharpest thorn!
    O Rose of the crimson beauty,
    Why hast thou awakened the sleeper?
    Why hast thou awakened the heart within me,
    O Rose of the crimson thorn?

III

    The unappeasable loveliness is calling to me out of the wind,
    And because your name is written upon the ivory doors,
    The wave in my heart is as a green wave, unconfined,
    Tossing the white foam toward you;
    And the lotus that pours
    Her fragrance into the purple cup
    Is more to be gained with the foam
    Than are you with these words of mine.

IV

_He speaks to the moonlight concerning the Belovèd._

    Pale hair that the moon has shaken
    Down over the dark breast of the sea,
    O magic her beauty has shaken
    About the heart of me;
    Out of you have I woven a dream
    That shall walk in the lonely vale
    Betwixt the high hill and the low hill,
    Until the pale stream
    Of the souls of men quench and grow still.

V

_Voices speaking to the sun._

    Red leaf that art blown upward and out and over
    The green sheaf of the world,
    And through the dim forest and under
    The shadowed arches and the aisles,
    We, who are older than thou art,
    Met and remembered when his eyes beheld her
    In the garden of the peach-trees,
    In the day of the blossoming.

VI

    I stood on the hill of Yrma when the winds were a-hurrying,
    With the grasses a-bending I followed them,
    Through the brown grasses of Ahva unto the green of Asedon.

    I have rested with the voices in the gardens of Ahthor,
    I have lain beneath the peach-trees in the hour of the purple:

    Because I had awaited in the garden of the peach-trees,
    Because I had feared not in the forest of my mind,
    Mine eyes beheld the vision of the blossom
    There in the peach-gardens past Asedon.

    O winds of Yrma, let her again come unto me,
    Whose hair ye held unbound in the gardens of Ahthor!

VII

    Because of the beautiful white shoulders and the rounded breasts
    I can in no wise forget my beloved of the peach-trees,
    And the little winds that speak when the dawn is unfurled
    And the rose-colour in the grey oak-leaf’s fold

    When it first comes, and the glamour that rests
    On the little streams in the evening; all of these
    Call me to her, and all the loveliness in the world
    Binds me to my beloved with strong chains of gold.

VIII

    If the rose-petals which have fallen upon my eyes
    And if the perfect faces which I see at times
    When my eyes are closed—
    Faces fragile, pale, yet flushed a little, like petals of roses:
    If these things have confused my memories of her
    So that I could not draw her face
    Even if I had skill and the colours,
    Yet because her face is so like these things
    They but draw me nearer unto her in my thought
    And thoughts of her come upon my mind gently,
    As dew upon the petals of roses.

IX

_He speaks to the rain._

    O pearls that hang on your little silver chains,
    The innumerable voices that are whispering
    Among you as you are drawn aside by the wind,
    Have brought to my mind the soft and eager speech
    Of one who hath great loveliness,

    Which is subtle as the beauty of the rains
    That hang low in the moonshine and bring
    The May softly among us, and unbind
    The streams and the crimson and white flowers and reach
    Deep down into the secret places.

X

    The glamour of the soul hath come upon me,
    And as the twilight comes upon the roses,
    Walking silently among them,
    So have the thoughts of my heart
    Gone out slowly in the twilight
    Toward my beloved,
    Toward the crimson rose, the fairest.




PLANH


_It is of the white thoughts that he saw in the Forest._

    White Poppy, heavy with dreams,
    O White Poppy, who art wiser than love,
    Though I am hungry for their lips
            When I see them a-hiding
    And a-passing out and in through the shadows
    —There in the pine wood it is,
    And they are white, White Poppy,
    They are white like the clouds in the forest of the sky
    Ere the stars arise to their hunting.

    O White Poppy, who art wiser than love,
    I am come for peace, yea from the hunting
    Am I come to thee for peace.
    Out of a new sorrow it is,
    That my hunting hath brought me.

    White Poppy, heavy with dreams,
    Though I am hungry for their lips
            When I see them a-hiding
    And a-passing out and in through the shadows
    —And it is white they are—

    But if one should look at me with the old hunger in her eyes,
    How will I be answering her eyes?

    For I have followed the white folk of the forest.

    Aye! It’s a long hunting
    And it’s a deep hunger I have when I see them a-gliding
    And a-flickering there, where the trees stand apart.

    But oh, it is sorrow and sorrow
    When love dies-down in the heart.




CANZONIERE

STUDIES IN FORM


“_Ma qui la morta poesi risurga._”

TO OLIVIA AND DOROTHY SHAKESPEAR




OCTAVE


    Fine songs, fair songs, these golden usuries
    Her beauty earns as but just increment,
    And they do speak with a most ill intent
    Who say they give when they pay debtor’s fees.

    I call him bankrupt in the courts of song
    Who hath her gold to eye and pays her not,
    Defaulter do I call the knave who hath got
    Her silver in his heart and doth her wrong.




SONNET IN TENZONE


LA MENTE

    “O thou mocked heart that cowerest by the door
    And durst not honour hope with welcoming,
    How shall one bid thee for her honour sing,
    When song would but show forth thy sorrow’s store?
    What things are gold and ivory unto thee?
    Go forth, thou pauper fool! Are these for naught?
    Is heaven in lotus leaves? What hast thou wrought,
    Or brought, or sought wherewith to pay the fee?”

IL CUORE

    “If naught I give, naught do I take return.
    ‘_Ronsard me celebroit!_’ behold I give
    The age-old, age-old fare to fairer fair
    And I fare forth into more bitter air;
    Though mocked I go, yet shall her beauty live
    Till rimes unrime and Truth shall truth unlearn.”




SONNET


    If on the tally-board of wasted days
    They daily write me for proud idleness,
    Let high Hell summons me, and I confess,
    No overt act the preferred charge allays.

    To-day I thought—what boots it what I thought?
    Poppies and gold! Why should I blurt it out?
    Or hawk the magic of her name about
    Deaf doors and dungeons where no truth is brought?

    Who calls me idle? I have thought of her.
    Who calls me idle? By God’s truth I’ve seen
    The arrowy sunlight in her golden snares.

    Let him among you all stand summonser
    Who hath done better things! Let whoso hath been
    With worthier works concerned, display his wares!




CANZON: THE YEARLY SLAIN


                   (Written in reply to Manning’s “Korè.”)
        “_Et huiusmodi stantiae usus est fere in omnibus cantionibus suis
         Arnaldus Danielis et nos eum secut, sumus._”
               (DANTE, _De Vulgari Eloquio_, II. 10.)

I

    Ah! red-leafed time hath driven out the rose
    And crimson dew is fallen on the leaf
    Ere ever yet the cold white wheat be sown
    That hideth all earth’s green and sere and red;
    The Moon-flower’s fallen and the branch is bare,
    Holding no honey for the starry bees;
    The Maiden turns to her dark lord’s demesne.

II

    Fairer than Enna’s field when Ceres sows
    The stars of hyacinth and puts off grief,
    Fairer than petals on May morning blown
    Through apple-orchards where the sun hath shed
    His brighter petals down to make them fair;
    Fairer than these the Poppy-crowned One flees,
    And Joy goes weeping in her scarlet train.

III

    The faint damp wind that, ere the even, blows
    Piling the west with many a tawny sheaf,
    Then when the last glad wavering hours are mown
    Sigheth and dies because the day is sped;
    This wind is like her and the listless air
    Wherewith she goeth by beneath the trees,
    The trees that mock her with their scarlet stain.

IV

    Love that is born of Time and comes and goes!
    Love that doth hold all noble hearts in fief!
    As red leaves follow where the wind hath flown,
    So all men follow Love when Love is dead.
    O Fate of Wind! O Wind that cannot spare,
    But drivest out the Maid, and pourest lees
    Of all thy crimson on the wold again,

V

    Korè my heart is, let it stand sans gloze!
    Love’s pain is long, and lo, love’s joy is brief!
    My heart erst alway sweet is bitter grown;
    As crimson ruleth in the good green’s stead,
    So grief hath taken all mine old joy’s share
    And driven forth my solace and all ease
    Where pleasure bows to all-usurping pain.

VI

    Crimson the hearth where one last ember glows!
    My heart’s new winter hath no such relief,
    Nor thought of Spring whose blossom he hath known
    Hath turned him back where Spring is banished.
    Barren the heart and dead the fires there,
    Blow! O ye ashes, where the winds shall please,
    But cry, “Love also is the Yearly Slain.”

VII

    Be sped, my Canzon, through the bitter air!
    To him who speaketh words as fair as these,
    Say that I also know the “Yearly Slain.”

KORÈ

        From the “Poems of Frederic Manning,” published by John
        Murray, with whose permission we here reprint it.

    Yea, she hath passed hereby and blessed the sheaves
    And the great garths and stacks and quiet farms,
    And all the tawny and the crimson leaves,
    Yea, she hath passed with poppies in her arms
    Under the star of dusk through stealing mist
    And blest the earth and gone while no man wist.

    With slow reluctant feet and weary eyes
    And eyelids heavy with the coming sleep,
    With small breasts lifted up in stress of sighs,
    She passed as shadows pass amid the sheep
    While the earth dreamed and only I was ware
    Of that faint fragrance blown from her soft hair.

    The land lay steeped in peace of silent dreams,
    There was no sound amid the sacred boughs
    Nor any mournful music in her streams,
    Only I saw the shadow on her brows,
    Only I knew her for the Yearly Slain
    And wept, and weep until she come again.




CANZON: THE SPEAR


        [This fashion of stanza is used by Jaufre Rudel in the song
         “_D’un amor de lonh_.”
         The measure is to be sung rather than spoken.]

I

    ’Tis the clear light of love I praise
    That steadfast gloweth o’er deep waters,
    A clarity that gleams always.
    Though man’s soul pass through troubled waters,
    Strange ways to him are opened.
    To shore the beaten ship is sped
    If only love of light give aid.

II

    That fair far spear of light now lays
    Its long gold shaft upon the waters.
    Ah! might I pass upon its rays
    To where it gleams beyond the waters,
    Or might my troubled heart be fed
    Upon the frail clear light there shed,
    Then were my pain at last allay’d.

III

    Although the clouded storm dismays
    Many a heart upon these waters,
    The thought of that far golden blaze
    Giveth me heart upon the waters,
    Thinking thereof my bark is led
    To port wherein no storm I dread;
    No tempest maketh me afraid.

IV

    Yet when within my heart I gaze
    Upon my fair beyond the waters,
    Meseems my soul within me prays
    To pass straightway beyond the waters.
    Though I be alway banished
    From ways and woods that she doth tread,
    One thing there is that doth not fade,

V

    Deep in my heart that spear-print stays,
    That wound I gat beyond the waters,
    Deeper with passage of the days
    That pass as swift and bitter waters,
    While a dull fire within my head
    Moveth itself if word be said
    Which hath concern with that far maid.

VI

    My love is lovelier than the sprays
    Of eglantine above clear waters,
    Or whitest lilies that upraise
    Their heads in midst of moated waters.
    No poppy in the May-glad mead
    Would match her quivering lips’ red
    If ’gainst her lips it should be laid.

VII

    The light within her eyes, which slays
    Base thoughts and stilleth troubled waters,
    Is like the gold where sunlight plays
    Upon the still o’ershadowed waters.
    When anger is there minglèd
    There comes a keener gleam instead,
    Like flame that burns beneath thin jade.

VIII

    Know by the words here minglèd
    What love hath made my heart his stead,
    Glowing like flame beneath thin jade.




CANZON


TO BE SUNG BENEATH A WINDOW

I

    Heart mine, art mine, whose embraces
    Clasp but wind that past thee bloweth?
    E’en this air so subtly gloweth,
    Guerdoned by thy sun-gold traces
    That my heart is half afraid
    For the fragrance on him laid;
    Even so love’s might amazes!

II

    Man’s love follows many faces,
    My love only one face knoweth;
    Towards thee only my love floweth,
    And outstrips the swift stream’s paces.
    Were this love well here displayed,
    As flame flameth ’neath thin jade
    Love should glow through these my phrases.

III

    Though I’ve roamed through many places,
    None there is that my heart troweth
    Fair as that wherein fair groweth
    One whose land here interlaces
    Tuneful words, that I’ve essayed.
    Let this tune be gently played
    Which my voice herward upraises.

IV

    If my praise her grace effaces,
    Then ’t is not my heart that showeth,
    But the skilless tongue that soweth
    Words unworthy of her graces.
    Tongue, that hath me so betrayed,
    Were my heart but here displayed,
    Then were sung her fitting praises.

        NOTE. The form and measure are those of Piere Vidal’s
                       “_Ab l’alen tir vas me l’aire_.”
              The song is fit only to be sung, and is not to be spoken.




CANZON: OF INCENSE


[To this form sings Arnault Daniel, with seven stanzas instead of five.]

I

    Thy gracious ways,
                      O Lady of my heart, have
    O’er all my thought their golden glamour cast;
    As amber torch-flames, where strange men-at-arms
    Tread softly ’neath the damask shield of night,
    Rise from the flowing steel in part reflected,
    So on my mailed thought that with thee goeth,
    Though dark the way, a golden glamour falleth.

II

    The censer sways
                    And glowing coals some art have
    To free what frankincense before held fast
    Till all the summer of the eastern farms
    Doth dim the sense, and dream up through the light,
    As memory, by new-born love corrected—
    With savour such as only new love knoweth—
    Through swift dim ways the hidden pasts recalleth.

III

    On barren days,
                    At hours when I, apart, have
    Bent low in thought of the great charm thou hast,
    Behold with music’s many stringed charms
    The silence groweth thou. O rare delight!
    The melody upon clear strings inflected
    Were dull when o’er taut sense thy presence floweth,
    With quivering notes’ accord that never palleth.

IV

    The glowing rays
                    That from the low sun dart, have
    Turned gold each tower and every towering mast;
    The saffron flame, that flaming nothing harms
    Hides Khadeeth’s pearl and all the sapphire might
    Of burnished waves, before her gates collected:
    The cloak of graciousness, that round thee gloweth,
    Doth hide the thing thou art, as here befalleth.

V

    All things worth praise
                            That unto Khadeeth’s mart have
    From far been brought through perils over-passed,
    All santal, myrrh, and spikenard that disarms
    The pard’s swift anger; these would weigh but light
    ’Gainst thy delights, my Khadeeth! Whence protected
    By naught save her great grace that in him showeth,
    My song goes forth and on her mercy calleth.

VI

    O censer of the thought that golden gloweth,
    Be bright before her when the evening falleth.

VII

    Fragrant be thou as a new field one moweth,
    O song of mine that “Hers” her mercy calleth.




CANZONE: OF ANGELS

I

    He that is Lord of all the realms of light
    Hath unto me from His magnificence
    Granted such vision as hath wrought my joy.
    Moving my spirit past the last defence
    That shieldeth mortal things from mightier sight,
    Where freedom of the soul knows no alloy,
    I saw what forms the lordly powers employ;
    Three splendours, saw I, of high holiness,
    From clarity to clarity ascending
    Through all the roofless, tacit courts extending
    In æther which such subtle light doth bless
    As ne’er the candles of the stars hath wooed;
    Know ye herefrom of their similitude.

II

    Withdrawn within the cavern of his wings,
    Grave with the joy of thoughts beneficent,
    And finely wrought and durable and clear
    If so his eyes showed forth the mind’s content,
    So sate the first to whom remembrance clings,
    Tissued like bat’s wings did his wings appear,
    Not of that shadowy colouring and drear,
    But as thin shells, pale saffron, luminous;
    Alone, unlonely, whose calm glances shed
    Friend’s love to strangers though no word were said,
    Pensive his godly state he keepeth thus.
    Not with his surfaces his power endeth,
    But is as flame that from the gem extendeth.

III

    My second marvel stood not in such ease,
    But he, the cloudy pinioned, winged him on
    Then from my sight as now from memory,
    The courier aquiline, so swiftly gone!
    The third most glorious of these majesties
    Give aid, O sapphires of th’ eternal see,
    And by your light illume pure verity.
    That azure feldspar hight the microcline,
    Or, on its wing, the Menelaus weareth
    Such subtlety of shimmering as beareth
    This marvel onward through the crystalline,
    A splendid calyx that about her gloweth,
    Smiting the sunlight on whose ray she goeth.

IV

    The diver at Sorrento from beneath
    The vitreous indigo, who swiftly riseth,
    By will and not by action as it seemeth,
    Moves not more smoothly, and no thought surmiseth
    How she takes motion from the lustrous sheath
    Which, as the trace behind the swimmer, gleameth
    Yet presseth back the æther where it streameth.
    To her whom it adorns this sheath imparteth
    The living motion from the light surrounding;
    And thus my nobler parts, to grief’s confounding,
    Impart into my heart a peace which starteth
    From one round whom a graciousness is cast
    Which clingeth in the air where she hath past.

V.—TORNATA

    Canzon, to her whose spirit seems in sooth
    Akin unto the feldspar, since it is
    So clear and subtle and azure, I send thee, saying:
    That since I looked upon such potencies
    And glories as are here inscribed in truth,
    New boldness hath o’erthrown my long delaying,
    And that thy words my new-born powers obeying—
    Voices at last to voice my heart’s long mood—
    Are come to greet her in their amplitude.

        NOTE. This form is not Provençal, but that of
        Dante’s matchless “_Voi che intendendo il terzo ciel
        movete_.” IL CONVITO, II, bar the decasyllabic
        lines which one can scarcely escape in English but which do
        not, despite all statements to the contrary, correspond to
        the hendecasyllabic lines in the Italian.




SONNET: CHI È QUESTA?


    Who is she coming, that the roses bend
    Their shameless heads to do her passing honour?
    Who is she coming with a light upon her
    Not born of suns that with the day’s end end?
    Say, is it Love who hath chosen the nobler part?
    Say, is it Love, that was divinity,
    Who hath left his godhead that his home might be
    The shameless rose of her unclouded heart?

    If this be Love, where hath he won such grace?
    If this be Love, how is the evil wrought,
    That all men write against his darkened name?
    If this be Love, if this .......
              O mind give place!
    What holy mystery e’er was noosed in thought?
    Own that thou scan’st her not, nor count it shame!




OF GRACE


(BALLATA, FRAGMENT)

II

    Full well thou knowest, song, what grace I mean,
    E’en as thou know’st the sunlight I have lost.
    Thou knowest the way of it and know’st the sheen
    About her brows where the rays are bound and crossed,
    E’en as thou knowest joy and know’st joy’s bitter cost.
    Thou know’st her grace in moving,
    Thou dost her skill in loving,
    Thou know’st what truth she proveth,
    Thou knowest the heart she moveth,
    O song where grief assoneth!




CANZON: THE VISION

        The form is that of Arnault Daniel’s
           “_Sols sui que sai lo sobrafan quem soris_.”

I

    When first I saw thee ’neath the silver mist,
    Ruling thy bark of painted sandal-wood,
    Did any know thee? By the golden sails
    That clasped the ribbands of that azure sea,
    Did any know thee save my heart alone?
    O ivory woman with thy bands of gold,
    Answer the song my luth and I have brought thee!

II

    Dream over golden dream that secret cist,
    Thy heart, O heart of me, doth hold, and mood
    On mood of silver, when the day’s light fails,
    Say who hath touched the secret heart of thee,
    Or who hath known what my heart hath not known!
    O slender pilot whom the mists enfold,
    Answer the song my luth and I have wrought thee!

III

    When new love plucks the falcon from his wrist,
    And cuts the gyve and casts the scarlet hood,
    Where is the heron heart whom flight avails?
    O quick to prize me Love, how suddenly
    From out the tumult truth hath ta’en his own,
    And in this vision is our past unrolled.
    Lo! With a hawk of light thy love hath caught me.

IV

    And I shall get no peace from eucharist,
    Nor doling out strange prayers before the rood,
    To match the peace that thine hands’ touch entails;
    Nor doth God’s light match light shed over me
    When thy caught sunlight is about me thrown,
    Oh, for the very ruth thine eyes have told,
    Answer the rune this love of thee hath taught me.

V

    After an age of longing had we missed
    Our meeting and the dream, what were the good
    Of weaving cloth of words? Were jeweled tales
    An opiate meet to quell the malady
    Of life unlived? In untried monotone
    Were not the earth as vain, and dry, and old,
    For thee, O Perfect Light, had I not sought thee?

VI

    Calais, in song where word and tone keep tryst,
    Behold my heart, and hear mine hardihood!
    Calais, the wind is come and heaven pales
    And trembles for the love of day to be.
    Calais, the words break and the dawn is shown.
    Ah, but the stars set when thou wast first bold,
    Turn! lest they say a lesser light distraught thee.

VII

    O ivory thou, the golden scythe hath mown
    Night’s stubble and my joy. Ah, royal souled,
    Favour the quest! Lo, Truth and I have sought thee!




TO OUR LADY OF VICARIOUS ATONEMENT


(BALLATA)

I

    Who are you that the whole world’s song
    Is shaken out beneath your feet
    Leaving you comfortless,
    Who, that, as wheat
    Is garnered, gather in
    The blades of man’s sin
    And bear that sheaf?
    Lady of wrong and grief,
    Blameless!

II

    All souls beneath the gloom
    That pass with little flames,
    All these till time be run
    Pass one by one
    As Christs to save, and die;
    What wrong one sowed,
    Behold, another reaps!
    Where lips awake our joy
    The sad heart sleeps
    Within.

    No man doth bear his sin,
    But many sins
    Are gathered as a cloud about man’s way.




EPILOGUE

TO GUIDO CAVALCANTI


    Dante and I are come to learn of thee,
    O Messire Guido, master of us all,
    Love, who hath set his hand upon us three,
    Bidding us twain upon thy glory call.
    Harsh light hath rent from us the golden pall
    Of that frail sleep, _His_ first light seigniory,
    And we are come through all the modes that fall
    Unto their lot who meet him constantly.
    Wherefore, by right, in this lord’s name we greet thee,
    Seeing we labour at his labour daily.
    Thou, who dost know what way swift words are crossed
    O thou, who hast sung till none at song defeat thee,
    Grant! by thy might and hers of San Michele,
    Thy risen voice send flames this pentecost.

        NOTE. This poem foreruns a translation of
        “The Sonnets and Ballate of Guido” now in preparation—E. P.




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.[10]

[10] 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.

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 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).


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.





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