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Title: Personae Author: Ezra Pound Release date: October 24, 2012 [eBook #41162] Most recently updated: April 3, 2024 Language: English Credits: Produced by Marc D'Hooghe (Images generously made available by the Internet Archive) *** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PERSONAE *** PERSONAE OF EZRA POUND LONDON ELKIN MATHEWS, VIGO STREET MCMIX "_Make-strong old dreams lest this our world lose heart._" THIS BOOK IS FOR MARY MOORE OF TRENTON, IF SHE WANTS IT CONTENTS GRACE BEFORE SONG LA FRAISNE CINO NA AUDIART VILLONAUD FOR THIS YULE A VILLONAUD: BALLAD OF THE GIBBET MESMERISM FIFINE ANSWERS IN TEMPORE SENECTUTIS FAMAM LIBROSQUE CANO SCRIPTOR IGNOTUS PRAISE OF YSOLT CAMARADERIE MASKS TALLY-O BALLAD FOR GLOOM FOR E. Mc C AT THE HEART O' ME XENIA OCCIDIT SEARCH AN IDYL FOR GLAUCUS IN DURANCE GUILLAUME DE LORRIS BELATED IN THE OLD AGE OF THE SOUL ALBA BELINGALIS FROM SYRIA FROM THE SADDLE MARVOIL REVOLT AND THUS IN NINEVEH THE WHITE STAG PICCADILLY NOTES PERSONAE Grace before Song Lord God of heaven that with mercy dight Th' alternate prayer-wheel of the night and light Eternal hath to thee, and in whose sight Our days as rain drops in the sea surge fall, As bright white drops upon a leaden sea Grant so my songs to this grey folk may be: As drops that dream and gleam and falling catch the sun, Evan'scent mirrors every opal one Of such his splendour as their compass is, So, bold My Songs, seek ye such death as this. La Fraisne[1] SCENE: _The Ash Wood of Malvern._ For I was a gaunt, grave councillor Being in all things wise, and very old, But I have put aside this folly and the cold That old age weareth for a cloak. I was quite strong--at least they said so-- The young men at the sword-play; But I have put aside this folly, being gay In another fashion that more suiteth me. I have curled mid the boles of the ash wood, I have hidden my face where the oak Spread his leaves over me, and the yoke Of the old ways of men have I cast aside. By the still pool of Mar-nan-otha Have I found me a bride That was a dog-wood tree some syne. She hath called me from mine old ways She hath hushed my rancour of council, Bidding me praise Naught but the wind that flutters in the leaves. She hath drawn me from mine old ways, Till men say that I am mad; But I have seen the sorrow of men, and am glad, For I know that the wailing and bitterness are a folly. And I? I have put aside all folly and all grief. I wrapped my tears in an ellum leaf And left them under a stone And now men call me mad because I have thrown All folly from me, putting it aside To leave the old barren ways of men, Because my bride Is a pool of the wood, and Though all men say that I am mad It is only that I am glad, Very glad, for my bride hath toward me a great love That is sweeter than the love of women That plague and burn and drive one away. Aie-e! 'Tis true that I am gay Quite gay, for I have her alone here And no man troubleth us. Once when I was among the young men.... And they said I was quite strong, among the young men. Once there was a woman.... .... but I forget.... she was.... .... I hope she will not come again. .... I do not remember.... I think she hurt me once, but.... That was very long ago. I do not like to remember things any more. I like one little band of winds that blow In the ash trees here: For we are quite alone Here mid the ash trees. [Footnote 1: Prefatory note at end of volume.] Cino _Italian Campagna_ 1309, _the open road._ Bah! I have sung women in three cities, But it is all the same; And I will sing of the sun. Lips, words, and you snare them, Dreams, words, and they are as jewels, Strange spells of old deity, Ravens, nights, allurement: And they are not; Having become the souls of song. Eyes, dreams, lips, and the night goes. Being upon the road once more, They are not. Forgetful in their towers of our tuneing Once for Wind-runeing They dream us-toward and Sighing, say, "Would Cino, Passionate Cino, of the wrinkling eyes, Gay Cino, of quick laughter, Cino, of the dare, the jibe, Frail Cino, strongest of his tribe That tramp old ways beneath the sun-light, Would Cino of the Luth were here!" Once, twice, a year-- Vaguely thus word they: "Cino?" "Oh, eh, Cino Polnesi The singer is't you mean?" "Ah yes, passed once our way, A saucy fellow, but.... (Oh they are all one these vagabonds), Peste! 'tis his own songs? Or some other's that he sings? But _you_, My Lord, how with your city? But you "My Lord," God's pity! And all I knew were out, My Lord, you Were Lack-land Cino, e'en as I am, O Sinistro. I have sung women in three cities. But it is all one. I will sing of the sun. .... eh?.... they mostly had grey eyes, But it is all one, I will sing of the sun. "'Pollo Phoibee, old tin pan, you Glory to Zeus' aegis-day, Shield o' steel-blue, th' heaven o'er us Hath for boss thy lustre gay! 'Pollo Phoibee, to our way-fare Make thy laugh our wander-lied; Bid thy 'fulgence bear away care. Cloud and rain-tears pass they fleet! Seeking e'er the new-laid rast-way To the gardens of the sun.... * * * * * * * * * * I have sung women in three cities But it is all one. I will sing of the white birds In the blue waters of heaven, The clouds that are spray to its sea. Na Audiart _Que be-m vols mal._ NOTE: Any one who has read anything of the troubadours knows well the tale of Bertran of Born and My Lady Maent of Montaignac, and knows also the song he made when she would none of him, the song wherein he, seeking to find or make her equal, begs of each preeminent lady of Langue d'Oc some trait or some fair semblance: thus of Cembelins her "esgart amoros" to wit, her love-lit glance, of Aelis her speech free-running, of the Vicomptess of Chales her throat and her two hands, at Roacoart of Anhes her hair golden as Iseult's; and even in this fashion of Lady Audiart "although she would that ill come unto him" he sought and praised the lineaments of the torse. And all this to make "Una dompna soiseubuda" a borrowed lady or as the Italians translated it "Una donna ideale." Though thou well dost wish me ill Audiart, Audiart, Where thy bodice laces start As ivy fingers clutching through Its crevices, Audiart, Audiart, Stately, tall and lovely tender Who shall render Audiart, Audiart Praises meet unto thy fashion? Here a word kiss! Pass I on Unto Lady "Miels-de-Ben," Having praised thy girdle's scope How the stays ply back from it; I breathe no hope That thou shouldst.... Nay no whit Bespeak thyself for anything. Just a word in thy praise, girl, Just for the swirl Thy satins make upon the stair, 'Cause never a flaw was there Where thy torse and limbs are met: Though thou hate me, read it set In rose and gold.[2] Or when the minstrel, tale half told, Shall burst to lilting at the phrase "Audiart, Audiart".... Bertrans, master of his lays, Bertrans of Aultaforte thy praise Sets forth, and though thou hate me well, Yea though thou wish me ill Audiart, Audiart. Thy loveliness is here writ till, Audiart, Oh, till thou come again.[3] And being bent and wrinkled, in a form That hath no perfect limning, when the warm Youth dew is cold Upon thy hands, and thy old soul Scorning a new, wry'd casement Churlish at seemed misplacement Finds the earth as bitter As now seems it sweet, Being so young and fair As then only in dreams, Being then young and wry'd, Broken of ancient pride, Thou shalt then soften, Knowing I know not how Thou wert once she Audiart, Audiart For whose fairness one forgave Audiart, Audiart Que be-m vols mal. [Footnote 2: _I.e. in illumed manuscript._] [Footnote 3: Reincarnate.] Villonaud for this Yule Towards the Noel that morte saison (_Christ make the shepherds' homage dear!_) Then when the grey wolves everychone Drink of the winds their chill small-beer And lap o' the snows food's gueredon Then makyth my heart his yule-tide cheer (Skoal! with the dregs if the clear be gone!) Wineing the ghosts of yester-year. Ask ye what ghosts I dream upon? (_What of the magians' scented gear?_) The ghosts of dead loves everyone That make the stark winds reek with fear Lest love return with the foison sun And slay the memories that me cheer (Such as I drink to mine fashion) Wineing the ghosts of yester-year. Where are the joys my heart had won? (_Saturn and Mars to Zeus drawn near!_)[4] Where are the lips mine lay upon, Aye! where are the glances feat and clear That bade my heart his valour don? I skoal to the eyes as grey-blown mere (Who knows whose was that paragon?) Wineing the ghosts of yester-year. Prince: ask me not what I have done Nor what God hath that can me cheer But ye ask first where the winds are gone Wineing the ghosts of yester-year. [Footnote 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! Francois and Margot and thee and me, Drink we the comrades merrily That said us, "Till then" for the gallows tree! Fat Pierre with the hook gauche-main, Thomas Larron "Ear-the-less," Tybalde and that armouress Who gave this poignard its premier stain Pinning the Guise that had been fain To make him a mate of the "Haulte Noblesse" And bade her be out with ill address As a fool that mocketh his drue's disdeign. Drink we a skoal for the gallows tree! Francois and Margot and thee and me, Drink we to Marienne Ydole, That hell brenn not her o'er cruelly. Drink we the lusty robbers twain, Black is the pitch o' their wedding-dress,[5] Lips shrunk back for the wind's caress As lips shrink back when we feel the strain Of love that loveth in hell's disdeign And sense the teeth through the lips that press 'Gainst our lips for the soul's distress That striveth to ours across the pain. Drink we skoal to the gallows tree! Francois and Margot and thee and me, For Jehan and Raoul de Vallerie Whose frames have the night and its winds in fee. Maturin, Guillaume, Jacques d'Allmain, Culdou lacking a coat to bless One lean moiety of his nakedness That plundered St. Hubert back o' the fane: Aie! the lean bare tree is widowed again For Michault le Borgne that would confess In "faith and troth" to a traitoress, "Which of his brothers had he slain?" But drink we skoal to the gallows tree! Francois and Margot and thee and me: These that we loved shall God love less And smite alway at their faibleness? Skoal!! to the Gallows! and then pray we: God damn his hell out speedily And bring their souls to his "Haulte Citee." [Footnote 5: Certain gibbeted corpses used to be coated with tar as a preservative; thus one scarecrow served as warning for considerable time. See Hugo "L'Homme qui Rit."] Mesmerism "_ And a cat's in the water-butt_."--ROBERT BROWNING. Aye you're a man that! ye old mesmerizer Tyin' your meanin' in seventy swadelin's, One must of needs be a hang'd early riser To catch you at worm turning. Holy Odd's bodykins! "Cat's i' the water butt!" Thought's in your verse-barrel, Tell us this thing rather, then we'll believe you, You, Master Bob Browning, spite your apparel Jump to your sense and give praise as we'd lief do. You wheeze as a head-cold long-tonsilled Calliope, But God! what a sight you ha' got o' our in'ards, Mad as a hatter but surely no Myope, Broad as all ocean and leanin' man-kin'ards. Heart that was big as the bowels of Vesuvius, Words that were wing'd as her sparks in eruption, Eagled and thundered as Jupiter Pluvius, Sound in your wind past all signs o' corruption. Here's to you, Old Hippety-hop o' the accents, True to the Truth's sake and crafty dissector, You grabbed at the gold sure; had no need to pack cents Into your versicles. Clear sight's elector! Fifine Answers "_Why is it that, disgraced they seem to relish life the more?_" --FIFINE AT THE FAIR, VII, 5. Sharing his exile that hath borne the flame, Joining his freedom that hath drunk the shame And known the torture of the Skull-place hours Free and so bound, that mingled with the powers Of air and sea and light his soul's far reach Yet strictured did the body-lips beseech "To drink" "I thirst." And then the sponge of gall. Wherefore we wastrels that the grey road's call Doth master and make slaves and yet make free, Drink all of life and quaffing lustily Take bitter with the sweet without complain And sharers in his drink defy the pain That makes you fearful to unfurl your souls. We claim no glory. If the tempest rolls About us we have fear, and then Having so small a stake grow bold again. We know not definitely even this But 'cause some vague half knowing half doth miss Our consciousness and leaves us feeling That somehow all is well, that sober, reeling From the last carouse, or in what measure Of so called right or so damned wrong our leisure Runs out uncounted sand beneath the sun, That, spite your carping, still the thing is done With some deep sanction, that, we know not how, Sans thought gives us this feeling; you allow That this not need we _know_ our every thought Or see the work shop where each mask is wrought Wherefrom we view the world of box and pit, Careless of wear, just so the mask shall fit And serve our jape's turn for a night or two. Call! eh bye! the little door at twelve! I meet you there myself. In Tempore Senectutis "For we are old And the earth passion dieth; We have watched him die a thousand times, When he wanes an old wind crieth, For we are old And passion hath died for us a thousand times But we grew never weary. Memory faileth, as the lotus-loved chimes Sink into fluttering of wind, But we grow never weary For we are old. The strange night-wonder of your eyes Dies not, though passion flieth Along the star fields of Arcturus And is no more unto our hands; My lips are cold And yet we twain are never weary, And the strange night-wonder is upon us, The leaves hold our wonder in their flutterings, The wind fills our mouths with strange words For our wonder that grows not old. The moth-hour of our day is upon us Holding the dawn; There is strange Night-wonder in our eyes Because the Moth-Hour leadeth the dawn As a maiden, holding her fingers, The rosy, slender fingers of the dawn." He saith: "Red spears bore the warrior dawn Of old Strange! Love, hast thou forgotten The red spears of the dawn, The pennants of the morning?" She saith: "Nay, I remember, but now Cometh the Dawn, and the Moth-Hour Together with him; softly For we are old." Famam Librosque Cano Your songs? Oh! The little mothers Will sing them in the twilight, And when the night Shrinketh the kiss of the dawn That loves and kills, What time the swallow fills Her note, the little rabbit folk That some call children, Such as are up and wide Will laugh your verses to each other, Pulling on their shoes for the day's business, Serious child business that the world Laughs at, and grows stale; Such is the tale --Part of it--of thy song-life Mine? A book is known by them that read That same. Thy public in my screed Is listed. Well! Some score years hence Behold mine audience, As we had seen him yesterday. Scrawny, be-spectacled, out at heels, Such an one as the world feels A sort of curse against its guzzling And its age-lasting wallow for red greed And yet; full speed Though it should run for its own getting, Will turn aside to sneer at 'Cause he hath No coin, no will to snatch the aftermath Of Mammon. Such an one as women draw away from For the tobacco ashes scattered on his coat And sith his throat Show razor's unfamiliarity And three days' beard: Such an one picking a ragged Backless copy from the stall, Too cheap for cataloguing, Loquitur, "Ah-eh! the strange rare name.... Ah-eh! He must be rare if even _I_ have not.... And lost mid-page Such age As his pardons the habit, He analyzes form and thought to see How I 'scaped immortality. Scriptor Ignotus Ferrara 1715 To K.R.H. "When I see thee as some poor song-bird Battering its wings, against this cage we Today, Then would I speak comfort unto thee, From out the heights I dwell in, when That great sense of power is upon me And I see my greater soul-self bending Sibylwise with that great forty year epic That you know of, yet unwrit But as some child's toy 'tween my fingers, And see the sculptors of new ages carve me thus, And model with the music of my couplets in their hearts: Surely if in the end the epic And the small kind deed are one; If to God the child's toy and the epic are the same, E'en so, did one make a child's toy, He might wright it well And cunningly, that the child might Keep it for his children's children And all have joy thereof. Dear, an this dream come true, Then shall all men say of thee "She 'twas that played him power at life's morn, And at the twilight Evensong, And God's peace dwelt in the mingled chords She drew from out the shadows of the past, And old world melodies that else He had known only in his dreams Of Iseult and of Beatrice. Dear, an this dream come true, I, who being poet only, Can give thee poor words only, Add this one poor other tribute, This thing men call immortality. A gift I give thee even as Ronsard gave it. Seeing before time, one sweet face grown old, And seeing the old eyes grow bright From out the border of Her fire-lit wrinkles, As she should make boast unto her maids "Ronsard hath sung the beauty, _my_ beauty, Of the days that I was fair." So hath the boon been given, by the poets of old time (Dante to Beatrice,--an I profane not--) Yet with my lesser power shall I not strive To give it thee? All ends of things are with Him From whom are all things in their essence. If my power be lesser Shall my striving be less keen? But rather more! if I would reach the goal, Take then the striving! "And if," for so the Florentine hath writ When having put all his heart Into his "Youth's Dear Book" He yet strove to do more honour To that lady dwelling in his inmost soul He would wax yet greater To make her earthly glory more. Though sight of hell and heaven were price thereof, If so it be His will, with whom Are all things and through whom Are all things good, Will I make for thee and for the beauty of thy music A new thing As hath not heretofore been writ. Take then my promise! Praise of Ysolt In vain have I striven to teach my heart to bow; In vain have I said to him "There be many singers greater than thou." But his answer cometh, as winds and as lutany. As a vague crying upon the night That leaveth me no rest, saying ever, "Song, a song." Their echoes play upon each other in the twilight Seeking ever a song. Lo, I am worn with travail And the wandering of many roads hath made my eyes As dark red circles filled with dust. Yet there is a trembling upon me in the twilight, And little red elf words crying "A song," Little grey elf words crying for a song, Little brown leaf words crying "A song," Little green leaf words crying for a song. The words are as leaves, old brown leaves in the spring time Blowing they know not whither, seeking a song. White words as snow flakes but they are cold Moss words, lip words, words of slow streams. In vain have I striven to teach my soul to bow, In vain have I pled with him, "There be greater souls than thou." For in the morn of my years there came a woman As moon light calling As the moon calleth the tides, "Song, a song." Wherefore I made her a song and she went from me As the moon doth from the sea, But still came the leaf words, little brown elf words Saying "The soul sendeth us." "A song, a song!" And in vain I cried unto them "I have no song For she I sang of hath gone from me." But my soul sent a woman, a woman of the wonder folk, A woman as fire upon the pine woods crying "Song, a song." As the flame crieth unto the sap. My song was ablaze with her and she went from me As flame leaveth the embers so went she unto new forests And the words were with me crying ever "Song, a song." And I "I have no song," Till my soul sent a woman as the sun: Yea as the sun calleth to the seed, As the spring upon the bough So is she that cometh the song-drawer She that holdeth the wonder words within her eyes The words little elf words that call ever unto me "Song, a song." ENVOI In vain have I striven with my soul to teach my soul to bow. What soul boweth while in his heart art thou? Camaraderie "_E tuttoque to fosse a la compagnia di molti, quanto alla vista_." Sometimes I feel thy cheek against my face Close-pressing, soft as is the South's first breath That all the subtle earth-things summoneth To spring in wood-land and in meadow space. Yea sometimes in a bustling man-filled place Me seemeth some-wise thy hair wandereth Across mine eyes, as mist that halloweth The air awhile and giveth all things grace. Or on still evenings when the rain falls close There comes a tremor in the drops, and fast My pulses run, knowing thy thought hath passed That beareth thee as doth the wind a rose. Masks These tales of old disguisings, are they not Strange myths of souls that found themselves among Unwonted folk that spake a hostile tongue, Some soul from all the rest who'd not forgot The star-span acres of a former lot Where boundless mid the clouds his course he swung, Or carnate with his elder brothers sung E'er ballad makers lisped of Camelot? Old singers half-forgetful of their tunes, Old painters colour-blind come back once more, Old poets skilless in the wind-heart runes, Old wizards lacking in their wonder-lore: All they that with strange sadness in their eyes Ponder in silence o'er earth's queynt devyse? Tally-O What ho! the wind is up and eloquent. Through all the Winter's halls he crieth Spring. Now will I get me up unto mine own forests And behold their bourgeoning. Ballad for Gloom For God, our God, is a gallant foe That playeth behind the veil. I have loved my God as a child at heart That seeketh deep bosoms for rest, I have loved my God as maid to man But lo, this thing is best: To love your God as a gallant foe that plays behind the veil, To meet your God as the night winds meet beyond Arcturus' pale. I have played with God for a woman, I have staked with my God for truth, I have lost to my God as a man, clear eyed, His dice be not of ruth. For I am made as a naked blade But hear ye this thing in sooth: Who loseth to God as man to man Shall win at the turn of the game. I have drawn my blade where the lightnings meet But the ending is the same: Who loseth to God as the sword blades lose Shall win at the end of the game. For God, our God, is a gallant foe that playeth behind the veil, Whom God deigns not to overthrow Hath need of triple mail. For E. Mc C _That was my counter-blade under Leonardo Terrone,_ _Master of Fence_. Gone while your tastes were keen to you, Gone where the grey winds call to you, By that high fencer, even Death, Struck of the blade that no man parrieth; Such is your fence, one saith, One that hath known you. Drew you your sword most gallantly Made you your pass most valiantly 'Gainst that grey fencer, even Death. Gone as a gust of breath Faith! no man tarrieth, "_Se il cor ti manca_" but it failed thee not! "_Non ti fidar_" it is the sword that speaks "_In me_."[6] Thou trusted'st in thyself and met the blade 'Thout mask or gauntlet, and art laid As memorable broken blades that be Kept as bold trophies of old pageantry. As old Toledos past their days of war Are kept mnemonic of the strokes they bore, So art thou with us, being good to keep In our heart's sword-rack, though thy sword-arm sleep. ENVOI Struck of the blade that no man parrieth Pierced of the point that toucheth lastly all, 'Gainst that grey fencer, even Death, Behold the shield! He shall not take thee all. [Footnote 6: Sword-rune "If thy heart fail thee trust not in me."] At the Heart o' Me A.D. 751 With ever one fear at the heart o' me Long by still sea-coasts coursed my Grey-Falcon, And the twin delights of shore and sea were mine, Sapphire and emerald with fine pearls between. Through the pale courses of the land-caressing in-streams Glided my barge and the kindly strange peoples Gave to me laugh for laugh, and wine for my tales of wandering. And the cities gave me welcome and the fields free passage, With ever one fear at the heart o' me. An thou should'st grow weary ere my returning, An "_they_" should call to thee from out the borderland, What should avail me booty of whale-ways? What should avail me gold rings or the chain-mail? What should avail me the many-twined bracelets? What should avail me, O my beloved, Here in this "Middan-gard"[7] what should avail me Out of the booty and gain of my goings? [Footnote 7: Anglo Saxon "Earth".] XENIA And Unto thine eyes my heart Sendeth old dreams of the spring-time, Yea of wood-ways my rime Found thee and flowers in and of all streams That sang low burthen, and of roses, That lost their dew-bowed petals for the dreams We scattered o'er them passing by. Occidit Autumnal breaks the flame upon the sun-set herds. The sheep on Gilead as tawn hair gleam Neath Mithra's dower and his slow departing, While in the sky a thousand fleece of gold Bear, each his tribute, to the waning god. Hung on the rafters of the effulgent west, Their tufted splendour shields his decadence, As in our southern lands brave tapestries Are hung king-greeting from the ponticells And drag the pageant from the earth to air, Wherein the storied figures live again, Wind-molden back unto their life's erst guise, All tremulous beneath the many-fingered breath That Aufidus[8] doth take to house his soul. [Footnote 8: The West wind.] Search I have heard a wee wind searching Through still forests for me; I have seen a wee wind searching O'er still sea. Through woodlands dim have I taken my way; And o'er silent waters night and day Have I sought the wee wind. An Idyl for Glaucus _Nel suo aspetto tal dentro mifei_ _Qual si fe' Glauco nel gustar dell' erba_ _Che il fe' consorto in mar degli altri dei._ PARADISO, I, 67-9. "_As Glaucus tasting the grass that made_ _him sea-fellow with the other gods._" I Whither he went I may not follow him. His eyes Were strange to-day. They always were, After their fashion, kindred of the sea. To-day I found him. It is very long That I had sought among the nets, and when I asked The fishermen, they laughed at me. I sought long days amid the cliffs thinking to find The body-house of him, and then There at the blue cave-mouth my joy Grew pain for suddenness, to see him 'live. Whither he went I may not come, it seems He is become estranged from all the rest, And all the sea is now his wonder-house. And he may sink unto strange depths, he tells me of, That have no light as we it deem. E'en now he speaks strange words. I did not know One half the substance of his speech with me. And then when I saw naught he sudden leaped And shot, a gleam of silver, down, away. And I have spent three days upon this rock And yet he comes no more. He did not even seem to know I watched him gliding through the vitreous deep. II They chide me that the skein I used to spin Holds not my interest now, They mock me at the route, well, I have come again. Last night I saw three white forms move Out past the utmost wave that bears the white foam crest. I somehow knew that he was one of them. Oimè, Oimè. I think each time they come Up from the sea heart to the realm of air They are more far-removed from the shore. When first I found him here, he slept E'en as he might after a long night's taking on the deep. And when he woke some whit the old kind smile Dwelt round his lips and held him near to me. But then strange gleams shot through the grey-deep eyes As though he saw beyond and saw not me. And when he moved to speak it troubled him. And then he plucked at grass and bade me eat. And then forgot me for the sea its charm And leapt him in the wave and so was gone. III I wonder why he mocked me with the grass. I know not any more how long it is Since I have dwelt not in my mother's house. I know they think me mad, for all night long I haunt the sea-marge, thinking I may find Some day the herb he offered unto me. Perhaps he did not jest; they say some simples have More wide-spanned power than old wives draw from them. Perhaps, found I this grass, he'd come again. Perhaps 'tis some strange charm to draw him here, 'Thout which he may not leave his new-found crew That ride the two-foot coursers of the deep, And laugh in storms and break the fishers' nets. Oimè, Oimè! SONG. _Voices in the Wind._ We have worn the blue and vair, And all the sea-caves Know us of old, and know our new-found mate. There's many a secret stair The sea-folk climb.... _Out of the Wind._ Oimè, Oimè! I wonder why the wind, even the wind doth seem To mock me now, all night, all night, and Have I strayed among the cliffs here They say, some day I'll fall Down through the sea-bit fissures, and no more Know the warm cloak of sun, or bathe The dew across my tired eyes to comfort them. They try to keep me hid within four walls. I will not stay! Oimè! And the wind saith; Oimè! I am quite tired now. I know the grass Must grow somewhere along this Thracian coast, If only he would come some little while and find it me. ENDETH THE LAMENT FOR GLAUCUS In Durance I am homesick after mine own kind, Oh I know that there are folk about me, friendly faces, But I am homesick after mine own kind. "These sell our pictures"! Oh well, They reach me not, touch me some edge or that, But reach me not and all my life's become One flame, that reacheth not beyond Mine heart's own hearth, Or hides among the ashes there for thee. "Thee"? Oh "thee" is who cometh first Out of mine own-soul-kin, For I am homesick after mine own kind And ordinary people touch me not. Yea, I am homesick After mine own kind that know, and feel And have some breath for beauty and the arts. Aye, I am wistful for my kin of the spirit And have none about me save in the shadows When come _they_, surging of power, "DAEMON," "Quasi KALOUN" S.T. says, Beauty is most that a "calling to the soul." Well then, so call they; the swirlers out of the mist of my soul, They that come mewards bearing old magic. But for all that, I am home sick after mine own kind And would meet kindred e'en as I am, Flesh-shrouded bearing the secret. "All they that with strange sadness" Have the earth in mock'ry, and are kind to all, My fellows, aye I know the glory Of th' unbounded ones, but ye, that hide As I hide most the while And burst forth to the windows only whiles or whiles For love, or hope, or beauty or for power, Then smoulder, with the lids half closed And are untouched by echoes of the world. Oh ye, my fellows: with the seas between us some be, Purple and sapphire for the silver shafts Of sun and spray all shattered at the bows Of such a "Veltro" of the vasty deep As bore my tortoise house scant years agone: And some the hills hold off, The little hills to east us, though here we Have damp and plain to be our shutting in. And yet my soul sings "Up!" and we are one. Yea thou, and Thou, and THOU, and all my kin To whom my breast and arms are ever warm, For that I love ye as the wind the trees That holds their blossoms and their leaves in cure And calls the utmost singing from the boughs That 'thout him, save the aspen, were as dumb Still shade, and bade no whisper speak the birds of how "Beyond, beyond, beyond, there lies...." Guillaume de Lorris Belated A Vision of Italy Wisdom set apart from all desire, A hoary Nestor with youth's own glad eyes, Him met I at the style, and all benign He greeted me an equal and I knew, By this his lack of pomp, he was himself. Slow-Smiling is companion unto him, And Mellow-Laughter serves, his trencherman. And I a thousand beauties there beheld. And he and they made merry endlessly. And love was rayed between them as a mist, And yet so fine and delicate a haze It did impede the eyes no whit, Unless it were to make the halo round each one Appear more myriad-jewelled marvellous, Than any pearled and ruby diadem the courts o' earth ha' known. Slender as mist-wrought maids and hamadryads Did meseem these shapes that ministered, These formed harmonies with lake-deep eyes, And first the cities of north Italy I did behold, Each as a woman wonder-fair, And svelte Verona first I met at eve; And in the dark we kissed and then the way Bore us somewhile apart. And yet my heart keeps tryst with her, So every year our thoughts are interwove As fingers were, such times as eyes see much, and tell. And she that loved the master years agone, That bears his signet in her "Signor Square," "Che lo glorifico."[9] She spread her arms, And in that deep embrace All thoughts of woe were perished And of pain and weariness and all the wrack Of light-contending thoughts and battled-gleams, (That our intelligence doth gain by strife against itself) Of things we have not yet the earnèd right to clearly see. And all, yea all that dust doth symbolize Was there forgot, and my enfranchised soul Grew as the liquid elements, and was infused With joy that is not light, nor might nor harmony, And yet hath part and quality of all these three, Whereto is added calm past earthly peace. Thus with Verona's spirit, and all time Swept on beyond my ken, and as the sea Hath in no wise a form within itself, _Cioè_, as liquid hath no form save where it bounden is By some enshrouding chalice of hard things-- As wine its graven goblet, and the sea Its wave-hewn basalt for a bordering, So had my thought and now my thought's remembrance No "_in_formation" of whatso there passed For this long space the dream-king's horny gate. And when that age was done and the transfusion Of all my self through her and she through me, I did perceive that she enthroned two things: Verona, and a maid I knew on earth; And dulled some while from dream, and then become That lower thing, deductive intellect, I saw How all things are but symbols of all things,[10] And each of many, do we know But the equation governing. And in my rapture at this vision's scope I saw no end or bourn to what things mean, So praised Pythagoras and once more raised By this said rapture to the house of Dream, Beheld Fenicè as a lotus-flower Drift through the purple of the wedded sea And grow a wraith and then a dark-eyed she, And knew her name was "All-forgetfulness," And hailed her: "Princess of the Opiates," And guessed her evil and her good thereby. And then a maid of nine "Pavia" hight, Passed with a laugh that was all mystery, And when I turned to her She reached me one clear chalice of white wine, Pressed from the recent grapes that yet were hung Adown her shoulders, and were bound Right cunningly about her elfish brows; So hale a draught, the life of every grape Lurked without ferment in the amber cloud. And memory, this wine was, of all good. And more I might have seen: Firenza, Goito, Or that proudest gate, Ligurian Genoa, Cornelia of Colombo of far sight, That, man and seer in one, had well been twain, And each a glory to his hills and sea; And past her a great band Bright garlanded or rich with purple skeins, And crimson mantles and queynt fineries That tarnished held but so the more Of dim allurement in their half-shown folds: So swept my vision o'er their filmy ranks, Then rose some opaque cloud, Whose name I have not yet discerned, And music as I heard it one clear night Within our earthly night's own mirroring, _Cioè_,--San Pietro by Adige,[11] Where altar candles blazed out as dim stars, And all the gloom was soft, and shadowy forms Made and sang God, within the far-off choir. And in a clear space high behind Them and the tabernacle of that place, Two tapers shew the master of the keys As some white power pouring forth itself. And all the church rang low and murmured Thus in my dream of forms the music swayed. And I was lost in it and only woke When something like a mass bell rang, and then That white-foot wind, pale Dawn's annunciatrice. Me bore to earth again, but some strange peace I had not known so well before this swevyn Clung round my head and made me hate earth less. [Footnote 11: For notes on this poem see end of volume--A Vision of Italy.] In the Old Age of the Soul I do not choose to dream; there cometh on me Some strange old lust for deeds. As to the nerveless hand of some old warrior The sword-hilt or the war-worn wonted helmet Brings momentary life and long-fled cunning, So to my soul grown old-- Grown old with many a jousting, many a foray, Grown old with many a hither-coming and hence-going-- Till now they send him dreams and no more deed; So doth he flame again with might for action, Forgetful of the council of the elders, Forgetful that who rules doth no more battle, Forgetful that such might no more cleaves to him So doth he flame again toward valiant doing. Alba Belingalis Phoebus shineth ere his splendour flieth Aurora drives faint light athwart the land And the drowsy watcher crieth, "ARISE." _Ref_ O'er cliff and ocean the white dawn appeareth It passeth vigil and the shadows cleareth. They be careless of the gates, delaying, Whom the ambush glides to hinder, Whom I warn and cry to, praying, "ARISE." _Ref_ O'er cliff and ocean the white dawn appeareth It passeth vigil and the shadows cleareth. Forth from out Arcturus, North Wind bloweth The stars of heaven sheathe their glory And sun-driven forth-goeth Settentrion. _Ref._ O'er sea mist, and mountain is the dawn display'd It passeth watch and maketh night afraid. From a tenth-century MS. From Syria The song of Peire Bremon "Lo Tort" that he made for his Lady in Provença: he being in Syria a crusader. In April when I see all through Mead and garden new flowers blow, And streams with ice-bands broken flow, Eke hear the birds their singing do; When spring's grass-perfume floateth by Then 'tis sweet song and birdlet's cry Do make mine old joy come anew. Such time was wont my thought of old To wander in the ways of love. Burnishing arms and clang thereof, And honour-services manifold Be now my need. Whoso combine Such works, love is his bread and wine, Wherefore should his fight the more be bold. Song bear I, who tears should bring Sith ire of love mak'th me annoy, With song think I to make me joy. Yet ne'er have I heard said this thing: "He sings who sorrow's guise should wear." Natheless I will not despair That sometime I'll have cause to sing. I should not to despair give way That some while I'll my lady see. I trust well He that lowered me Hath power again to make me gay. But if e'er I come to my Love's land And turn again to Syrian strand, God keep me there for a fool, alway! God for a miracle well should Hold my coming from her away, And hold me in His grace alway That I left her, for holy-rood. An I lose her, no joy for me, Pardi, hath the wide world in fee. Nor could He mend it, if He would. Well did she know sweet wiles to take My heart, when thence I took my way. 'Thout sighing, pass I ne'er a day For that sweet semblance she did make To me, saying all in sorrow: "Sweet friend, and what of me to-morrow?" "Love mine, why wilt me so forsake?" ENVOI Beyond sea be thou sped, my song, And, by God, to my Lady say That in desirous, grief-filled way My nights and my days are full long. And command thou William the Long-Seer To tell thee to my Lady dear, That comfort be her thoughts among. The only bit of Peire Bremon's work that has come down to us, and through its being printed with the songs of Giraut of Bornelh he is like to lose credit for even this.--E.P. From the Saddle D'AUBIGNE TO DIANE Wearied by wind and wave death goes With gin and snare right near alway Unto my sight. Behind me bay As hounds the tempests of my foes. Ever on ward against such woes, Pistols my pillow's service pay, Yet Love makes me the poet play. Thou know'st the rime demands repose, So if my line disclose distress, The soldier and my restlessness And teen, Pardon, dear Lady mine, For since mid war I bear love's pain 'Tis meet my verse, as I, show sign Of powder, gun-match and sulphur stain. Marvoil A poor clerk I, "Arnaut the less" they call me, And because I have small mind to sit Day long, long day cooped on a stool A-jumbling o' figures for Maitre Jacques Polin, I ha' taken to rambling the South here. The Vicomte of Beziers's not such a bad lot. I made rimes to his lady this three year: Vers and canzone, till that damn'd son of Aragon, Alfonso the half-bald, took to hanging _His_ helmet at Beziers. Then came what might come, to wit: three men and one woman, Beziers off at Mont-Ausier, I and his lady Singing the stars in the turrets of Beziers, And one lean Aragonese cursing the seneschal To the end that you see, friends: Aragon cursing in Aragon, Beziers busy at Beziers-- Bored to an inch of extinction, Tibors all tongue and temper at Mont-Ausier, Me! in this damn'd inn of Avignon, Stringing long verse for the Burlatz; All for one half-bald, knock-knee'd king of the Aragonese, Alfonso, Quatro, poke-nose. And if when I am dead They take the trouble to tear out this wall here, They'll know more of Arnaut of Marvoil Than half his canzoni say of him. As for will and testament I leave none, Save this: "Vers and canzone to the Countess of Beziers In return for the first kiss she gave me." May her eyes and her cheek be fair To all men except the King of Aragon, And may I come speedily to Beziers Whither my desire and my dream have preceded me. O hole in the wall here! be thou my jongleur As ne'er had I other, and when the wind blows, Sing thou the grace of the Lady of Beziers, For even as thou art hollow before I fill thee with this parchment, So is my heart hollow when she filleth not mine eyes, And so were my mind hollow, did she not fill utterly my thought. Wherefore, O hole in the wall here, When the wind blows sigh thou for my sorrow That I have not the Countess of Beziers Close in my arms here. Even as thou shalt soon have this parchment. O hole in the wall here, be thou my jongleur, And though thou sighest my sorrow in the wind, Keep yet my secret in thy breast here; Even as I keep her image in my heart here. _Mihi pergamena deest._ Revolt Against the crepuscular spirit in modern poetry I would shake off the lethargy of this our time, and give For shadows--shapes of power For dreams--men. "It is better to dream than do"? Aye! and, No! Aye! if we dream great deeds, strong men, Hearts hot, thoughts mighty. No! if we dream pale flowers, Slow-moving pageantry of hours that languidly Drop as o'er-ripened fruit from sallow trees. If so we live and die not life but dreams, Great God, grant life in dreams, Not dalliance, but life! Let us be men that dream, Not cowards, dabblers, waiters For dead Time to reawaken and grant balm For ills unnamed. Great God, if we be damn'd to be not men but only dreams, Then let us be such dreams the world shall tremble at And know we be its rulers though but dreams! Then let us be such shadows as the world shall tremble at And know we be its masters though but shadow! Great God, if men are grown but pale sick phantoms That must live only in these mists and tempered lights And tremble for dim hours that knock o'er loud Or tread too violent in passing them; Great God, if these thy sons are grown such thin ephemera, I bid thee grapple chaos and beget Some new titanic spawn to pile the hills and stir This earth again. And Thus in Nineveh "Aye! I am a poet and upon my tomb Shall maidens scatter rose leaves And men myrtles, ere the night Slays day with her dark sword. "Lo! this thing is not mine Nor thine to hinder, For the custom is full old, And here in Nineveh have I beheld Many a singer pass and take his place In those dim halls where no man troubleth His sleep or song. And many a one hath sung his songs More craftily, more subtle-souled than I; And many a one now doth surpass My wave-worn beauty with his wind of flowers, Yet am I poet, and upon my tomb Shall all men scatter rose leaves Ere the night slay light With her blue sword. "It is not, Raama, that my song rings highest Or more sweet in tone than any, but that I Am here a Poet, that doth drink of life As lesser men drink wine." The White Stag I ha' seen them mid the clouds on the heather. Lo! they pause not for love nor for sorrow, Yet their eyes are as the eyes of a maid to her lover, When the white hart breaks his cover And the white wind breaks the morn. "_'Tis the white stagy Fame, we're a-hunting, Bid the world's hounds come to horn!_" _Piccadilly_ _Beautiful, tragical faces,_ _Ye that were whole, and are so sunken;_ _And, O ye vile, ye that might have been loved,_ _That are so sodden and drunken,_ _Who hath forgotten you?_ _O wistful, fragile faces, few out of many!_ _The gross, the coarse, the brazen,_ _God knows I cannot pity them, perhaps, as I should do,_ _But, oh, ye delicate, wistful faces,_ _Who hath forgotten you?_ NOTES NOTE PRECEDENT TO "LA FRAISNE" "When the soul is exhausted of fire, then doth the spirit return unto its primal nature and there is upon it a peace great and of the woodland "_magna pax et silvestris_." Then becometh it kin to the faun and the dryad, a woodland-dweller amid the rocks and streams "_consociis faunis dryadisque inter saxa sylvarum_." Janus of Basel.[1] Also has Mr. Yeats in his "Celtic Twilight" treated of such, and I because in such a mood, feeling myself divided between myself corporal and a self aetherial "a dweller by streams and in woodland," eternal because simple in elements "_ Aeternus quia simplex naturae_." Being freed of the weight of a soul "capable of salvation or damnation," a grievous striving thing that after much straining was mercifully taken from me; as had one passed saying as one in the Book of the Dead, "I, lo I, am the assembler of souls," and had taken it with him leaving me thus _simplex naturae_, even so at peace and transsentient as a wood pool I made it. The Legend thus: "Miraut de Garzelas, after the pains he bore a-loving Riels of Calidorn and that to none avail, ran mad in the forest. "Yea even as Peire Vidal ran as a wolf for her of Penautier though some say that twas folly or as Garulf Bisclavret so ran truly, till the King brought him respite (See 'Lais' Marie de France), so was he ever by the Ash Tree." Hear ye his speaking: (low, slowly he speaketh it, as one drawn apart, reflecting) (égaré). [Footnote 1: Referendum for contrast. "Daemonalitas" of the Rev. Father Sinistrari of Ameno (1600 circ.) "A treatise wherein is shown that there are in existence on earth rational creatures besides man, endowed like him with a body and soul, that are born and die like him, redeemed by our Lord Jesus Christ, and capable of receiving salvation or damnation." Latin and English text, pub. Liseux, Paris, 1879.] NOTES ON NEW POEMS VISION OF ITALY. 1. "_che lo glorifico_." In the Piazza dei Signori, you will find an inscription which translates thus: "It is here Can Grande della Scala gave welcome to Dante Alighieri, the _same which glorified him_, dedicating to him that third his song eternal." "C.G. vi accolse D.A. che lo glorifico dedicandogli la terza, delle eterne sue cantiche." 2. Ref. Richard of St. Victor. "On the preparation of the soul for contemplation," where he distinguishes between cogitation, meditation, and contemplation. In cogitation the thought or attention flits aimlessly about the subject. In meditation it circles round it, that is, it views it systematically, from all sides, gaining perspective. In contemplation it radiates from a centre, that is, as light from the sun it reaches out in an infinite number of ways to things that are related to or dependent on it. The words above are my own, as I have not the Benjamin Minor by me. Following St. Victor's figure of radiation: Poetry in its acme is expression from contemplation. 3. San Pietro Incarnato. There are several rows of houses intervening between it and the river. ALBA BELINGALIS MS. in Latin, with refrain, "L alba par umet mar atras el poy Pas abigil miraclar Tenebris." It was and may still be the oldest fragment of Provençal known. MARVOIL The Personae are: Arnaut of Marvoil, a troubadour, date 1170-1200. The Countess (in her own right) of Burlatz, and of Beziers, being the wife of The Vicomte of Beziers. Alfonso IV of Aragon. Tibors of Mont-Ausier. For fuller mention of her see the "razos" on Bertran of Born. She is contemporary with the other persons, but I have no strict warrant for dragging her name into this particular affair. Marco Londonio's Italian version of "Nel Biancheggiar": Nel biancheggiar di delicata rosa Risplendono i colori D' occidentali fiori Prima che l'alba, in esultanza ascosa Voglia baciarli. Ed aleggiar io sento Qual su dolce lïuto Nel lor linguaggio muto Fiorir di gioia e tocco di tormento Cosi un' arcano senso di languore, Le sue sognanti dita Fanno scordar la vita Spirando in verso tutto pien d'amore.... Senza morir: chè sanno i suoni alati, Vedendo il nostro stato, Ch' è dal dolor turbato, Di lasciarci, morendo, desolati. *** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PERSONAE *** Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will be renamed. Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project Gutenberg™ electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG™ concept and trademark. 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