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                             DES IMAGISTES




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             «Καὶ κείνα Σικελά, καὶ ἐν Αἰτναίαισιν ἔπαιζεν
             ἀόσι, καὶ μέλος ᾖδε τὸ Δώριον.»
                                          Επιτάφιος Βίωνος

                        “And she also was of Sikilia and was gay in
                          the valleys of Ætna, and knew the Doric
                          singing.”




------------------------------------------------------------------------




                             DES IMAGISTES

                              AN ANTHOLOGY






                                NEW YORK
                        ALBERT AND CHARLES BONI
                            96 FIFTH AVENUE
                                  1914




------------------------------------------------------------------------




                            Copyright, 1914
                                   By
                        Albert and Charles Boni




------------------------------------------------------------------------




                                CONTENTS


 RICHARD ALDINGTON
     Choricos       7
     To a Greek Marble       10
     Au Vieux Jardin       11
     Lesbia       12
     Beauty Thou Hast Hurt Me Overmuch       13
     Argyria       14
     In the Via Sestina       15
     The River       16
     Bromios       17
     To Atthis       19

 H. D.
     Sitalkas       20
     Hermes of the Ways I       21
     Hermes of the Ways II       22
     Priapus       24
     Acon       26
     Hermonax       28
     Epigram       30

 F. S. FLINT
     I       31
     II Hallucination       32
     III       33
     IV       34
     V The Swan       35

 SKIPWITH CANNÉLL
     Nocturnes       36

 AMY LOWELL
     In a Garden       38

 WILLIAM CARLOS WILLIAMS
     Postlude       39

 JAMES JOYCE
     I Hear an Army       40

 EZRA POUND
     Δώρια       41
     The Return       42
     After Ch’u Yuan       43
     Liu Ch’e       44
     Fan-Piece for Her Imperial Lord       45
     Ts’ai Chi’h       46

 FORD MADOX HUEFFER
     In the Little Old Market-Place       47

 ALLEN UPWARD
     Scented Leaves from a Chinese Jar       51

 JOHN COURNOS after K. TETMAIER
     The Rose       54

 DOCUMENTS
     To Hulme (T. E.) and Fitzgerald       57
     Vates, the Social Reformer       59
     Fragments Addressed by Clearchus H. to Aldi       62

 _Bibliography_       63




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                                CHORICOS


           The ancient songs
           Pass deathward mournfully.

           Cold lips that sing no more, and withered wreaths,
           Regretful eyes, and drooping breasts and wings—
           Symbols of ancient songs
           Mournfully passing
           Down to the great white surges,
           Watched of none
           Save the frail sea-birds
           And the lithe pale girls,
           Daughters of Okeanus.

           And the songs pass
           From the green land
           Which lies upon the waves as a leaf
           On the flowers of hyacinth;
           And they pass from the waters,
           The manifold winds and the dim moon,
           And they come,
           Silently winging through soft Kimmerian dusk,
           To the quiet level lands
           That she keeps for us all,
           That she wrought for us all for sleep
           In the silver days of the earth’s dawning—
           Proserpina, daughter of Zeus.

           And we turn from the Kuprian’s breasts,
           And we turn from thee,
           Phoibos Apollon,
           And we turn from the music of old
           And the hills that we loved and the meads,
           And we turn from the fiery day,
           And the lips that were over sweet;
           For silently
           Brushing the fields with red-shod feet,
           With purple robe
           Searing the flowers as with a sudden flame,
           Death,
           Thou hast come upon us.

           And of all the ancient songs
           Passing to the swallow-blue halls
           By the dark streams of Persephone,
           This only remains:
           That we turn to thee,
           Death,
           That we turn to thee, singing
           One last song.

           O Death,
           Thou art an healing wind
           That blowest over white flowers
           A-tremble with dew;
           Thou art a wind flowing
           Over dark leagues of lonely sea;
           Thou art the dusk and the fragrance;
           Thou art the lips of love mournfully smiling;
           Thou art the pale peace of one
           Satiate with old desires;
           Thou art the silence of beauty,
           And we look no more for the morning
           We yearn no more for the sun,
           Since with thy white hands,
           Death,
           Thou crownest us with the pallid chaplets,
           The slim colourless poppies
           Which in thy garden alone
           Softly thou gatherest.

           And silently,
           And with slow feet approaching,
           And with bowed head and unlit eyes,
           We kneel before thee:
           And thou, leaning towards us,
           Caressingly layest upon us
           Flowers from thy thin cold hands,
           And, smiling as a chaste woman
           Knowing love in her heart,
           Thou sealest our eyes
           And the illimitable quietude
           Comes gently upon us.

                                            RICHARD ALDINGTON




                           TO A GREEK MARBLE


                 Πότνια, πότνια
                 White grave goddess,
                 Pity my sadness,
                 O silence of Paros.

                 I am not of these about thy feet,
                 These garments and decorum;
                 I am thy brother,
                 Thy lover of aforetime crying to thee,
                 And thou hearest me not.

                 I have whispered thee in thy solitudes
                 Of our loves in Phrygia,
                 The far ecstasy of burning noons
                 When the fragile pipes
                 Ceased in the cypress shade,
                 And the brown fingers of the shepherd
                 Moved over slim shoulders;
                 And only the cicada sang.

                 I have told thee of the hills
                 And the lisp of reeds
                 And the sun upon thy breasts,

                 And thou hearest me not,
                 Πότνια, πότνια,
                 Thou hearest me not.

                                      RICHARD ALDINGTON




                            AU VIEUX JARDIN


        I have sat here happy in the gardens,
        Watching the still pool and the reeds
        And the dark clouds
        Which the wind of the upper air
        Tore like the green leafy boughs
        Of the divers-hued trees of late summer;
        But though I greatly delight
        In these and the water lilies,
        That which sets me nighest to weeping
        Is the rose and white colour of the smooth flag-stones,
        And the pale yellow grasses
        Among them.

                                              RICHARD ALDINGTON




                                 LESBIA


             Use no more speech now;
             Let the silence spread gold hair above us
             Fold on delicate fold;
             You had the ivory of my life to carve.
             Use no more speech.
                           .   .   .   .

             And Picus of Mirandola is dead;
             And all the gods they dreamed and fabled of,
             Hermes, and Thoth, and Christ, are rotten now,
             Rotten and dank.
                           .   .   .   .

             And through it all I see your pale Greek face;
             Tenderness makes me as eager as a little child
             To love you

             You morsel left half cold on Caesar’s plate.

                                          RICHARD ALDINGTON




                   BEAUTY THOU HAST HURT ME OVERMUCH


                      The light is a wound to me.
                      The soft notes
                      Feed upon the wound.

                      Where wert thou born
                      O thou woe
                      That consumest my life?
                      Whither comest thou?

                      Toothed wind of the seas,
                      No man knows thy beginning.
                      As a bird with strong claws
                      Thou woundest me,
                      O beautiful sorrow.

                                RICHARD ALDINGTON




                                ARGYRIA


             O you,
             O you most fair,
             Swayer of reeds, whisperer
             Among the flowering rushes,
             You have hidden your hands
             Beneath the poplar leaves,
             You have given them to the white waters.

             Swallow-fleet,
             Sea-child cold from waves,
             Slight reed that sang so blithely in the wind,
             White cloud the white sun kissed into the air;
             Pan mourns for you.

             White limbs, white song,
             Pan mourns for you.

                                          RICHARD ALDINGTON




                           IN THE VIA SESTINA


                O daughter of Isis,
                Thou standest beside the wet highway
                Of this decayed Rome,
                A manifest harlot.

                Straight and slim art thou
                As a marble phallus;
                Thy face is the face of Isis
                Carven

                As she is carven in basalt.
                And my heart stops with awe
                At the presence of the gods,

                There beside thee on the stall of images
                Is the head of Osiris
                Thy lord.

                                       RICHARD ALDINGTON




                               THE RIVER


                                   I

               I drifted along the river
               Until I moored my boat
               By these crossed trunks.

               Here the mist moves
               Over fragile leaves and rushes,
               Colourless waters and brown fading hills.

               She has come from beneath the trees,
               Moving within the mist,
               A floating leaf.

                                  II

               O blue flower of the evening,
               You have touched my face
               With your leaves of silver.

               Love me for I must depart.

                                       RICHARD ALDINGTON




                                BROMIOS


             The withered bonds are broken.
             The waxed reeds and the double pipe
             Clamour about me;
             The hot wind swirls
             Through the red pine trunks.

             Io! the fauns and the satyrs.
             The touch of their shagged curled fur
             And blunt horns!

             They have wine in heavy craters
             Painted black and red;
             Wine to splash on her white body.
             Io!
             She shrinks from the cold shower—
             Afraid, afraid!

             Let the Maenads break through the myrtles
             And the boughs of the rohododaphnai.
             Let them tear the quick deers’ flesh.
             Ah, the cruel, exquisite fingers!

             Io!
             I have brought you the brown clusters,
             The ivy-boughs and pine-cones.

             Your breasts are cold sea-ripples,
             But they smell of the warm grasses.

             Throw wide the chiton and the peplum,
             Maidens of the Dew.
             Beautiful are your bodies, O Maenads,
             Beautiful the sudden folds,
             The vanishing curves of the white linen
             About you.

             Io!
             Hear the rich laughter of the forest,
             The cymbals,
             The trampling of the panisks and the centaurs.

                                         RICHARD ALDINGTON.




                               TO ATTHIS

            (_After the Manuscript of Sappho now in Berlin_)

           Atthis, far from me and dear Mnasidika,
           Dwells in Sardis;
           Many times she was near us
           So that we lived life well
           Like the far-famed goddess
           Whom above all things music delighted.

           And now she is first among the Lydian women
           As the mighty sun, the rose-fingered moon,
           Beside the great stars.

           And the light fades from the bitter sea
           And in like manner from the rich-blossoming earth;
           And the dew is shed upon the flowers,
           Rose and soft meadow-sweet
           And many-coloured melilote.

           Many things told are remembered of sterile Atthis.

           I yearn to behold thy delicate soul
           To satiate my desire.  .  .  .
             .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .

                                            RICHARD ALDINGTON




                                SITALKAS


                     Thou art come at length
                     More beautiful
                     Than any cool god
                     In a chamber under
                     Lycia’s far coast,
                     Than any high god
                     Who touches us not
                     Here in the seeded grass.
                     Aye, than Argestes
                     Scattering the broken leaves.

                                             H. D.




                           HERMES OF THE WAYS


                                   I

                   The hard sand breaks,
                   And the grains of it
                   Are clear as wine.

                   Far off over the leagues of it,
                   The wind,
                   Playing on the wide shore,
                   Piles little ridges,
                   And the great waves
                   Break over it.

                   But more than the many-foamed ways
                   Of the sea,
                   I know him
                   Of the triple path-ways,
                   Hermes,
                   Who awaiteth.

                   Dubious,
                   Facing three ways,
                   Welcoming wayfarers,
                   He whom the sea-orchard
                   Shelters from the west,
                   From the east
                   Weathers sea-wind;
                   Fronts the great dunes.

                   Wind rushes
                   Over the dunes,
                   And the coarse, salt-crusted grass
                   Answers.

                   Heu,
                   It whips round my ankles!

                                   II

                   Small is
                   This white stream,
                   Flowing below ground
                   From the poplar-shaded hill,
                   But the water is sweet.

                   Apples on the small trees
                   Are hard,
                   Too small,
                   Too late ripened
                   By a desperate sun
                   That struggles through sea-mist.

                   The boughs of the trees
                   Are twisted
                   By many bafflings;
                   Twisted are
                   The small-leafed boughs.
                   But the shadow of them
                   Is not the shadow of the mast head
                   Nor of the torn sails.

                   Hermes, Hermes,
                   The great sea foamed,
                   Gnashed its teeth about me;
                   But you have waited,
                   Where sea-grass tangles with
                   Shore-grass.

                                                H. D.




                                PRIAPUS

                          _Keeper-of-Orchards_


                 I saw the first pear
                 As it fell.
                 The honey-seeking, golden-banded,
                 The yellow swarm
                 Was not more fleet than I,
                 (Spare us from loveliness!)
                 And I fell prostrate,
                 Crying,
                 Thou hast flayed us with thy blossoms;
                 Spare us the beauty
                 Of fruit-trees!

                 The honey-seeking
                 Paused not,
                 The air thundered their song,
                 And I alone was prostrate.

                 O rough-hewn
                 God of the orchard,
                 I bring thee an offering;
                 Do thou, alone unbeautiful
                 (Son of the god),
                 Spare us from loveliness.

                 The fallen hazel-nuts,
                 Stripped late of their green sheaths,
                 The grapes, red-purple,
                 Their berries
                 Dripping with wine,
                 Pomegranates already broken,
                 And shrunken fig,
                 And quinces untouched,
                 I bring thee as offering.

                                                  H. D.




                                  ACON

                  (_After Joannes Baptista Amaltheus_)


                                   I

              Bear me to Dictaeus,
              And to the steep slopes;
              To the river Erymanthus.

              I choose spray of dittany,
              Cyperum frail of flower,
              Buds of myrrh,
              All-healing herbs,
              Close pressed in calathes.

              For she lies panting,
              Drawing sharp breath,
              Broken with harsh sobs,
              She, Hyella,
              Whom no god pitieth.

                                   II

              Dryads,
              Haunting the groves,
              Nereids,
              Who dwell in wet caves,
              For all the whitish leaves of olive-branch,
              And early roses,
              And ivy wreathes, woven gold berries,
              Which she once brought to your altars,
              Bear now ripe fruits from Arcadia,
              And Assyrian wine
              To shatter her fever.

              The light of her face falls from its flower,
              As a hyacinth,
              Hidden in a far valley,
              Perishes upon burnt grass.

              Pales,
              Bring gifts,
              Bring your Phoenician stuffs,
              And do you, fleet-footed nymphs,
              Bring offerings,
              Illyrian iris,
              And a branch of shrub,
              And frail-headed poppies.

                                                     H. D.




                                HERMONAX


                Gods of the sea;
                Ino,
                Leaving warm meads
                For the green, grey-green fastnesses
                Of the great deeps;
                And Palemon,
                Bright striker of sea-shaft,
                Hear me.

                Let all whom the sea loveth,
                Come to its altar front,
                And I
                Who can offer no other sacrifice to thee
                Bring this.

                Broken by great waves,
                The wavelets flung it here,
                This sea-gliding creature,
                This strange creature like a weed,
                Covered with salt foam,
                Torn from the hillocks
                Of rock.

                I, Hermonax,
                Caster of nets,
                Risking chance,
                Plying the sea craft,
                Came on it.

                Thus to sea god
                Cometh gift of sea wrack;
                I, Hermonax, offer it
                To thee, Ino,
                And to Palemon.

                                                   H. D.




                                EPIGRAM

                          (_After the Greek_)


               The golden one is gone from the banquets;
               She, beloved of Atimetus,
               The swallow, the bright Homonoea:
               Gone the dear chatterer.

                                                   H. D.




                                   I


                     London, my beautiful,
                     it is not the sunset
                     nor the pale green sky
                     shimmering through the curtain
                     of the silver birch,
                     nor the quietness;
                     it is not the hopping
                     of birds
                     upon the lawn,
                     nor the darkness
                     stealing over all things
                     that moves me.

                     But as the moon creeps slowly
                     over the tree-tops
                     among the stars,
                     I think of her
                     and the glow her passing
                     sheds on men.

                     London, my beautiful,
                     I will climb
                     into the branches
                     to the moonlit tree-tops,
                     that my blood may be cooled
                     by the wind.

                                        F. S. FLINT




                                   II


        I know this room,
        and there are corridors:
        the pictures, I have seen before;
        the statues and those gems in cases
        I have wandered by before,—
        stood there silent and lonely
        in a dream of years ago.

        I know the dark of night is all around me;
        my eyes are closed, and I am half asleep.
        My wife breathes gently at my side.

        But once again this old dream is within me,
        and I am on the threshold waiting,
        wondering, pleased, and fearful.
        Where do those doors lead,
        what rooms lie beyond them?
        I venture. . . .

        But my baby moves and tosses
        from side to side,
        and her need calls me to her.

        Now I stand awake, unseeing,
        in the dark,
        and I move towards her cot. . . .
        I shall not reach her . . . There is no direction. . . .
        I shall walk on. . . .

                                                     F. S. FLINT




                                  III


                  Immortal? . . . No,
                  they cannot be, these people,
                  nor I.

                  Tired faces,
                  eyes that have never seen the world,
                  bodies that have never lived in air,
                  lips that have never minted speech,
                  they are the clipped and garbled,
                  blocking the highway.
                  They swarm and eddy
                  between the banks of glowing shops
                  towards the red meat,
                  the potherbs,
                  the cheapjacks,
                  or surge in
                  before the swift rush
                  of the clanging trams,—
                  pitiful, ugly, mean,
                  encumbering.

                  Immortal? . . .
                  In a wood,
                  watching the shadow of a bird
                  leap from frond to frond of bracken,
                  I am immortal.

                  But these?

                                           F. S. FLINT




                                   IV


                    The grass is beneath my head;
                    and I gaze
                    at the thronging stars
                    in the night.

                    They fall . . . they fall. . . .
                    I am overwhelmed,
                    and afraid.

                    Each leaf of the aspen
                    is caressed by the wind,
                    and each is crying.

                    And the perfume
                    of invisible roses
                    deepens the anguish.

                    Let a strong mesh of roots
                    feed the crimson of roses
                    upon my heart;
                    and then fold over the hollow
                    where all the pain was.

                                         F. S. FLINT




                                   V


               Under the lily shadow
               and the gold
               and the blue and mauve
               that the whin and the lilac
               pour down on the water,
               the fishes quiver.

               Over the green cold leaves
               and the rippled silver
               and the tarnished copper
               of its neck and beak,
               toward the deep black water
               beneath the arches,
               the swan floats slowly.

               Into the dark of the arch the swan floats
               and into the black depth of my sorrow
               it bears a white rose of flame.

                                             F. S. FLINT




                               NOCTURNES


                                   I

                  Thy feet,
                  That are like little, silver birds,
                  Thou hast set upon pleasant ways;
                  Therefore I will follow thee,
                  Thou Dove of the Golden Eyes,
                  Upon any path will I follow thee,
                  For the light of thy beauty
                  Shines before me like a torch.


                                   II

                  Thy feet are white
                  Upon the foam of the sea;
                  Hold me fast, thou bright Swan,
                  Lest I stumble,
                  And into deep waters.


                                  III

                  Long have I been
                  But the Singer beneath thy Casement,
                  And now I am weary.
                  I am sick with longing,
                  O my Belovéd;
                  Therefore bear me with thee
                  Swiftly
                  Upon our road.


                                   IV

                  With the net of thy hair
                  Thou hast fished in the sea,
                  And a strange fish
                  Hast thou caught in thy net;
                  For thy hair,
                  Belovéd,
                  Holdeth my heart
                  Within its web of gold.


                                   V

                  I am weary with love, and thy lips
                  Are night-born poppies.
                  Give me therefore thy lips
                  That I may know sleep.


                                   VI

                  I am weary with longing,
                  I am faint with love;
                  For upon my head has the moonlight
                  Fallen
                  As a sword.

                                      SKIPWITH CANNÉLL




                              IN A GARDEN


        Gushing from the mouths of stone men
        To spread at ease under the sky
        In granite-lipped basins,
        Where iris dabble their feet
        And rustle to a passing wind,
        The water fills the garden with its rushing,
        In the midst of the quiet of close-clipped lawns.

        Damp smell the ferns in tunnels of stone,
        Where trickle and plash the fountains,
        Marble fountains, yellowed with much water.

        Splashing down moss-tarnished steps
        It falls, the water;
        And the air is throbbing with it;
        With its gurgling and running;
        With its leaping, and deep, cool murmur.

        And I wished for night and you.
        I wanted to see you in the swimming-pool,
        White and shining in the silver-flecked water.
        While the moon rode over the garden,
        High in the arch of night,
        And the scent of the lilacs was heavy with stillness.

        Night and the water, and you in your whiteness, bathing!

                                                      AMY LOWELL




                                POSTLUDE


                Now that I have cooled to you
                Let there be gold of tarnished masonry,
                Temples soothed by the sun to ruin
                That sleep utterly.
                Give me hand for the dances,
                Ripples at Philæ, in and out,
                And lips, my Lesbian,
                Wall flowers that once were flame.

                Your hair is my Carthage
                And my arms the bow
                And our words arrows
                To shoot the stars,
                Who from that misty sea
                Swarm to destroy us.
                But you’re there beside me
                Oh, how shall I defy you
                Who wound me in the night
                With breasts shining
                Like Venus and like Mars?
                The night that is shouting Jason
                When the loud eaves rattle
                As with waves above me
                Blue at the prow of my desire!
                O prayers in the dark!
                O incense to Poseidon!
                Calm in Atlantis.

                                WILLIAM CARLOS WILLIAMS




                             I HEAR AN ARMY


     I hear an army charging upon the land,
     And the thunder of horses plunging; foam about their knees:
     Arrogant, in black armour, behind them stand,
     Disdaining the rains, with fluttering whips, the Charioteers.

     They cry into the night their battle name:
     I moan in sleep when I hear afar their whirling laughter.
     They cleave the gloom of dreams, a blinding flame,
     Clanging, clanging upon the heart as upon an anvil.

     They come shaking in triumph their long grey hair:
     They come out of the sea and run shouting by the shore.
     My heart, have you no wisdom thus to despair?
     My love, my love, my love, why have you left me alone?

                                                       JAMES JOYCE




                                 ΔΏΡΙΑ


               Be in me as the eternal moods
                         of the bleak wind, and not
               As transient things are—
                         gaiety of flowers.
               Have me in the strong loneliness
                         of sunless cliffs
               And of grey waters.
                         Let the gods speak softly of us
               In days hereafter,
                         The shadowy flowers of Orcus
               Remember Thee.

                                              EZRA POUND




                               THE RETURN


               See, they return; ah, see the tentative
               Movements, and the slow feet,
               The trouble in the pace and the uncertain
               Wavering!

               See, they return, one, and by one,
               With fear, as half-awakened;
               As if the snow should hesitate
               And murmur in the wind
                               and half turn back;
               These were the “Wing’d-with-Awe,”
                         Inviolable.

               Gods of the winged shoe!
               With them the silver hounds
                               sniffing the trace of air!
               Haie! Haie!
                         These were the swift to harry;
               These the keen-scented;
               These were the souls of blood.

               Slow on the leash,
                               pallid the leash-men!

                                               EZRA POUND




                            AFTER CH’U YUAN


         I will get me to the wood
         Where the gods walk garlanded in wisteria,
         By the silver-blue flood move others with ivory cars.
         There come forth many maidens
                 to gather grapes for the leopards, my friend.
         For there are leopards drawing the cars.

         I will walk in the glade,
         I will come out of the new thicket
                 and accost the procession of maidens.

                                                    EZRA POUND




                                LIU CH’E


           The rustling of the silk is discontinued,
           Dust drifts over the courtyard,
           There is no sound of footfall, and the leaves
           Scurry into heaps and lie still,
           And she the rejoicer of the heart is beneath them:

           A wet leaf that clings to the threshold.

                                                  EZRA POUND.




                    FAN-PIECE FOR HER IMPERIAL LORD


              O fan of white silk,
                        clear as frost on the grass-blade,
              You also are laid aside.

                                                EZRA POUND




                              TS’AI CHI’H


               The petals fall in the fountain,
                         the orange coloured rose-leaves,
               Their ochre clings to the stone.
                                              EZRA POUND.




                     IN THE LITTLE OLD MARKET-PLACE

                       _(To the Memory of A. V.)_


 It rains, it rains,
 From gutters and drains
 And gargoyles and gables:
 It drips from the tables
 That tell us the tolls upon grains,
 Oxen, asses, sheep, turkeys and fowls
 Set into the rain-soaked wall
 Of the old Town Hall.

 The mountains being so tall
 And forcing the town on the river,
 The market’s so small
 That, with the wet cobbles, dark arches and all,
 The owls
 (For in dark rainy weather the owls fly out
 Well before four), so the owls
 In the gloom
 Have too little room
 And brush by the saint on the fountain
 In veering about.

 The poor saint on the fountain!
 Supported by plaques of the giver
 To whom we’re beholden;
 His name was de Sales
 And his wife’s name von Mangel.

 (Now is he a saint or archangel?)
 He stands on a dragon
 On a ball, on a column
 Gazing up at the vines on the mountain:
 And his falchion is golden
 And his wings are all golden.
 He bears golden scales
 And in spite of the coils of his dragon, without hint of alarm or
    invective
 Looks up at the mists on the mountain.

 (Now what saint or archangel
 Stands winged on a dragon,
 Bearing golden scales and a broad bladed sword all golden?
 Alas, my knowledge
 Of all the saints of the college,
 Of all these glimmering, olden
 Sacred and misty stories
 Of angels and saints and old glories . . .
 Is sadly defective.)
 The poor saint on the fountain . . .

 On top of his column
 Gazes up sad and solemn.
 But is it towards the top of the mountain
 Where the spindrifty haze is
 That he gazes?
 Or is it into the casement
 Where the girl sits sewing?
 There’s no knowing.

 Hear it rain!
 And from eight leaden pipes in the ball he stands on
 That has eight leaden and copper bands on,
 There gurgle and drain
 Eight driblets of water down into the basin.

 And he stands on his dragon
 And the girl sits sewing
 High, very high in her casement
 And before her are many geraniums in a parket
 All growing and blowing
 In box upon box
 From the gables right down to the basement
 With frescoes and carvings and paint . . .

 The poor saint!
 It rains and it rains,
 In the market there isn’t an ox,
 And in all the emplacement
 For waggons there isn’t a waggon,
 Not a stall for a grape or a raisin,
 Not a soul in the market
 Save the saint on his dragon
 With the rain dribbling down in the basin,
 And the maiden that sews in the casement.

 They are still and alone,
 _Mutterseelens_ alone,
 And the rain dribbles down from his heels and his crown,
 From wet stone to wet stone.
 It’s grey as at dawn,
 And the owls, grey and fawn,
 Call from the little town hall
 With its arch in the wall,
 Where the fire-hooks are stored.

 From behind the flowers of her casement
 That’s all gay with the carvings and paint,
 The maiden gives a great yawn,
 But the poor saint—
 No doubt he’s as bored!
 Stands still on his column
 Uplifting his sword
 With never the ease of a yawn
 From wet dawn to wet dawn . . .

                                                       FORD MADOX HUEFFER




                   SCENTED LEAVES FROM A CHINESE JAR


                       THE BITTER PURPLE WILLOWS

Meditating on the glory of illustrious lineage I lifted up my eyes and
beheld the bitter purple willows growing round the tombs of the exalted
Mings.

                             THE GOLD FISH

                  Like a breath from hoarded musk,
                  Like the golden fins that move
                  Where the tank’s green shadows part—
                  Living flames out of the dusk—
                  Are the lightning throbs of love
                  In the passionate lover’s heart.

                          THE INTOXICATED POET

A poet, having taken the bridle off his tongue, spoke thus: “More
fragrant than the heliotrope, which blooms all the year round, better
than vermilion letters on tablets of sendal, are thy kisses, thou shy
one!”

                              THE JONQUILS

I have heard that a certain princess, when she found that she had been
married by a demon, wove a wreath of jonquils and sent it to the lover
of former days.

                              THE MERMAID

The sailor boy who leant over the side of the Junk of Many Pearls, and
combed the green tresses of the sea with his ivory fingers, believing
that he had heard the voice of a mermaid, cast his body down between the
waves.

                           THE MIDDLE KINGDOM

The emperors of fourteen dynasties, clad in robes of yellow silk
embroidered with the Dragon, wearing gold diadems set with pearls and
rubies, and seated on thrones of incomparable ivory, have ruled over the
Middle Kingdom for four thousand years.

                             THE MILKY WAY

My mother taught me that every night a procession of junks carrying
lanterns moves silently across the sky, and the water sprinkled from
their paddles falls to the earth in the form of dew. I no longer believe
that the stars are junks carrying lanterns, no longer that the dew is
shaken from their oars.

                             THE SEA-SHELL

To the passionate lover, whose sighs come back to him on every breeze,
all the world is like a murmuring sea-shell.

                           THE SWALLOW TOWER

Amid a landscape flickering with poplars, and netted by a silver stream,
the Swallow Tower stands in the haunts of the sun. The winds out of the
four quarters of heaven come to sigh around it, the clouds forsake the
zenith to bathe it with continuous kisses. Against its sun-worn walls a
sea of orchards breaks in white foam; and from the battlements the birds
that flit below are seen like fishes in a green moat. The windows of the
Tower stand open day and night; the winged Guests come when they please,
and hold communication with the unknown Keeper of the Tower.

                                                            ALLEN UPWARD




                                THE ROSE


I remember a day when I stood on the sea shore at Nice, holding a
scarlet rose in my hands.

The calm sea, caressed by the sun, was brightly garmented in blue,
veiled in gold, and violet, verging on silver.

Gently the waves lapped the shore, and scattering into pearls, emeralds
and opals, hastened towards my feet with a monotonous, rhythmical sound,
like the prolonged note of a single harp-string.

High in the clear, blue-golden sky hung the great, burning disc of the
sun.

White seagulls hovered above the waves, now barely touching them with
their snow-white breasts, now rising anew into the heights, like
butterflies over the green meadows . . .

Far in the east, a ship, trailing its smoke, glided slowly from sight as
though it had foundered in the waste.

I threw the rose into the sea, and watched it, caught in the wave,
receding, red on the snow-white foam, paler on the emerald wave.

And the sea continued to return it to me, again and again, at last no
longer a flower, but strewn petals on restless water.

So with the heart, and with all proud things. In the end nothing remains
but a handful of petals of what was once a proud flower . . .

                                          JOHN COURNOS after K. TETMAIER

------------------------------------------------------------------------




                               DOCUMENTS

------------------------------------------------------------------------




                    TO HULME (T. E.) AND FITZGERALD


                  Is there for feckless poverty
                  That grins at ye for a’ that!
                  A hired slave to none am I,
                  But under-fed for a’ that;
                  For a’ that and a’ that,
                  The toils I shun and a’ that,
                  My name but mocks the guinea stamp,
                  And Pound’s dead broke for a’ that.

                  Although my linen still is clean,
                  My socks fine silk and a’ that,
                  Although I dine and drink good wine—
                  Say, twice a week, and a’ that;
                  For a’ that and a’ that,
                  My tinsel shows and a’ that,
                  These breeks ’ll no last many weeks
                  ’Gainst wear and tear and a’ that.

                  Ye see this birkie ca’ed a bard,
                  Wi’ cryptic eyes and a’ that,
                  Aesthetic phrases by the yard;
                  It’s but E. P. for a’ that,
                  For a’ that and a’ that,
                  My verses, books and a’ that,
                  The man of independent means
                  He looks and laughs at a’ that.

                  One man will make a novelette
                  And sell the same and a’ that.
                  For verse nae man can siller get,
                  Nae editor maun fa’ that.
                  For a’ that and a’ that,
                  Their royalties and a’ that,
                  Wib time to loaf and will to write
                  I’ll stick to rhyme for a’ that.

                  And ye may prise and gang your ways
                  Wi’ pity, sneers and a’ that,
                  I know my trade and God has made
                  Some men to rhyme and a’ that,
                  For a’ that and a’ that,
                  I maun gang on for a’ that
                  Wi’ verse to verse until the hearse
                  Carts off me wame and a’ that.

WRITTEN FOR THE CENACLE OF 1909 VIDE INTRODUCTION TO “THE COMPLETE
POETICAL WORKS OF T. E. HULME,” PUBLISHED AT THE END OF “RIPOSTES.”




                       VATES, THE SOCIAL REFORMER


          What shall be said of him, this cock-o’-hoop?
          (I’m just a trifle bored, dear God of mine,
          Dear unknown God, dear chicken-pox of Heaven,
          I’m bored I say), But still—my social friend—
          (One has to be familiar in one’s discourse)
          While he was puffing out his jets of wit
          Over his swollen-bellied pipe, one thinks,
          One thinks, you know, of quite a lot of things.

          (Dear unknown God, dear, queer-faced God,
          Queer, queer, queer, queer-faced God,
          You blanky God, be quiet for half minute,
          And when I’ve shut up Rates, and sat on Naboth,
          I’ll tell you half a dozen things or so.)

          There goes a flock of starlings—
          Now half a dozen years ago,
          (Shut up, you blighted God, and let me speak)
          I should have hove my sporting air-gun up
          And blazed away—and now I let ’em go—
          It’s odd how one changes;
          Yes, that’s High Germany.

          But still, when he was smiling like a Chinese queen,
          Looking as queer (I do assure you, God)
          As any Chinese queen I ever saw;
          And tiddle-whiddle-whiddling about prose,
          Trying to quiz a mutton-headed poetaster,
          And choking all the time with politics—
          Why then I say, I contemplated him
          And marveled (God! I marveled,
          Write it in prose, dear God. Yes, in red ink.)
          And marveled, as I said,
          At the stupendous quantity of mind
          And the amazing quality thereof.

          Dear God of mine,
          It’s really most amazing, doncherknow,
          But really, God, I _can’t_ get off the mark;
          Look here, you queer-faced God,
          This fellow makes me sick with all his talk,
          His ha’penny gibes at Celtic bards
          And followers of Dante—honest folk!—
          Because, dear God, the rotten beggar goes
          And makes a Chinese blue-stocking
          From half-digested dreams of Munich-air.
          And then—God, why should I write it down?—
          But Rates and Naboth
          Aren’t half such silly fools as he is (God)
          For they are frankly asinine,
          While he pretends to sanity,
          Modernity, (dear God, dear God).

          It’s bad enough, dear God of mine,
          That you have set me down in London town,
          Endowed me with a tattered velvet coat,
          Soft collar and black hat and Greek ambitions;
          You might have left me there.

          But now you send
          This “vates” here, this sage social reformer
          (Yes, God, you rotten Roman Catholic)
          To put his hypothetical conceptions
          Of what a poor young poetaster would think
          Into his own damned shape, and then to attack it
          To his own great contemplative satisfaction.
          What have I done, O God,
          That so much bitterness should flop on me?
          Social Reformer! That’s the beggar’s name.
          He’d have me write bad novels like himself.

          Yes, God, I know it’s after closing time;
          And yes, I know I’ve smoked his cigarettes;
          But watch that sparrow on the fountain in the rain.
          How half a dozen years ago,
          (Shut up, you blighted God, and let me speak)
          I should have hove my sporting air-gun up
          And blazed away—and now I let him go—
          It’s odd how one changes;
          Yes, that’s High Germany.

                                                         R. A.




              FRAGMENTS ADDRESSED BY CLEARCHUS H. TO ALDI


                                Πωετριε
                          Πρικε φιφτεεν κενξ
                                          π. 43

         Ἰ ἁυε σατ ἑρε ἁρριε ἰν μι ἀρμχαιρ
                   (πύτνηβυς, πύτνηβυς) (1)
         ὐατχινγ θε στιλλ Ηουνδ ἀνδ θε κιδ
         ὐιθ θε δαρκ ἁιρ
         ὑιχ θε ὐινδ ὀφ μι ὐπραισεδ ὐοικε
         τορε λικε ἀ γρεεν ματτεδ μεσς
                   (Ὠ ἄνδρες Ἀθηναῖοι) (2)
         ὀφ ὐετ κοβυεβς ἀνδ σεαυεεδ ἀτ τυιλιγτ,
         βυτ τὁυγ Ἰ γρεατλιε δελιγτεδ
                   (ἠράμαν μὲν ἐγὼ σέθεν, Ἀλδί, πάλαι πότα) (3)
         ἰν θησε ἀνδ θε Ἐζρα ὑισκέρς
         τἁτ ὑιχ σετς με νιρεστ το ὐεεπινγ
                   (ὁ δὲ Κλέαρχος εἶπε) (4)
         ἰς θε κλασσικαλ ῥυθμ ὀφ θε ραρε σπεεχες,
         Ὠ θε ὐνσπωκεν σπεεχες
         Ἑλλενικ.

        NOTES. (1) A vehicle conducting passengers from Athens,
                   the capital of Greece, to the temple of the winds,
                   which stands in a respectable suburb.
               (2) Rendered by Butler, “O God! O Montreal!”
               (3) Sappho!!!!!!
               (4) Xenophon’s Anabasis.
                                                           F. M. H.


                                Pôetrie
                          Prike phiphteen kenx
                                           p. 43

             I haue sat here harrie in mi armchair
                       (putnêbus, putnêbus) (1)
             uatching the still Êound and the kid
             uith the dark hair
             huich the uind oph mi upraised uoike
             tore like a green matted mess
                       (Ô andres Athênaioi) (2)
             oph uet kobuebs and seaueed at tuiligt,
             but thoug I greatlie deligted
                       (êraman men egô sethen, Aldi, palai pota) (3)
             in thêse and the Ezra huiskers
             that huich sets me nirest to ueeping
                       (ho de Klearchos eipe) (4)
             is the klassikal rhythm oph the rare speeches,
             Ô the unspôken speeches
             Hellenik.


                                 Poetry
                          Price fifteen cents
                                           p. 43

             I have sat here Harry in my armchair
                       (Putney-bus, Putney-bus) (1)
             watching the still hound and the kid
             with the dark hair
             which the wind of my upraised voice
             tore like a green matted mess
                       (Ô andres Athênaioi) (2)
             of wet cobwebs and seaweed at twilight,
             but though I greatly delighted
                       (êraman men egô sethen, Aldi, palai pota) (3)
             in these and the Ezra whiskers
             that which sets me nearest to weeping
                       (ho de Klearchos eipe) (4)
             is the classical rhythm of the rare speeches,
             O the unspoken speeches
             Hellenic.




                              BIBLIOGRAPHY


F. S. FLINT—“The Net of the Stars.” Published by Elkin Mathews, 4 Cork
    St., London, W.

EZRA POUND—Collected Poems (Personae, Exultations, Canzoni, Ripostes).
    Published by Elkin Mathews.

TRANSLATIONS:

        “The Sonnets and Ballate of Guido Cavalcanti.” Published by
        Small, Maynard & Co., Boston.

        The Canzoni of Arnaut Daniel. R. F. Seymour & Co., Fine Arts
        Bldg., Chicago.

PROSE:

    “The Spirit of Romance.” A study of mediaeval poetry. Dent & Sons.
        London.

FORD MADOX HUEFFER—“Collected Poems.” Published by Max Goschen, 20 Gt.
    Russel St., London. Forty volumes of prose with various publishers.

ALLEN UPWARD—Author of “The New Word,” “The Divine Mystery,” etc., etc.

        The “Scented Leaves” appears in “Poetry” for September 1913.

WILLIAM CARLOS WILLIAMS—“The Tempers.” Published by Elkin Mathews.

AMY LOWELL—“A Dome of Many Coloured Glass.” Published by Houghton,
    Mifflin, Boston.




                          Transcriber's Notes

On page 37, "popies" was replaced by "poppies".

The humorous poem written with Greek characters on page 62 has also been
rendered in their Latin equivalents for the benefit of those who cannot
pronounce the Greek and also in Latin look-alikes. It appears that, in
the first line, the rho's should have been pi's, making the 5th word
=ἁππιε= or =happie=; it was left as printed. Or, this might have been
addressed to the editor of "Poetry" whose name was Harriet Monroe.

Minor typographical errors have been corrected without comment.





End of Project Gutenberg's Des Imagistes, by Various