Part 1
DES IMAGISTES
«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
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.