Part 17

Gabriel, when that hush may be, This sweet hand all heedfully I’ll undo, for thee alone, From his mother’s own.

Then the far blue highways paven With the burning stars of heaven He shall gladden with the sweet Hasting of his feet—

Feet so brightly bare and cool, Leaping, as from pool to pool; From a little laughing boy Splashing rainbow joy!

Gabriel, wilt thou understand How to keep his hovering hand— Never shut, as in a bond, From the bright beyond?

Nay, but though it cling and close Tightly as a clinging rose, Clasp it only so—aright, Lest his heart take fright.

(_Dormi, dormi, tu; The dusk is hung with blue._)

II

Lord Michael, wilt not thou rejoice When at last a little boy’s Heart, a shut-in murmuring bee, Turns him into thee?

Wilt thou heed thine armor well— To take his hand from Gabriel, So his radiant cup of dream May not spill a gleam?

He will take thy heart in thrall, Telling o’er thy breastplate all Colors, in his bubbling speech, With his hand to each.

(_Dormi, dormi, tu, Sapphire is the blue; Pearl and beryl, they are called, Chrysoprase and emerald, Sard and amethyst. Numbered so, and kissed._)

Ah, but find some angel word For thy sharp, subduing sword! Yea, Lord Michael, make no doubt He will find it out:

(_Dormi, dormi, tu!_) _His eyes will look at you._

III

Last, a little morning space, Lead him to that leafy place Where Our Lady sits awake, For all mothers’ sake.

Bosomed with the Blessèd One, He shall mind her of her Son, Once so folded from all harms, In her shrining arms.

(_In her veil of blue, Dormi, dormi, tu._)

So—and fare thee well. Softly—Gabriel ... When the first faint red shall come, Bid the Day-star lead him home— For the bright world’s sake— To my heart, awake.

THE CEDARS

All down the years the fragrance came, The mingled fragrance, with a flame, Of cedars breathing in the sun, The cedar-trees of Lebanon.

O thirst of song in bitter air, And hope, wing-hurt from iron care, What balm of myrrh and honey, won From far-off trees of Lebanon!

Not from these eyelids yet have I Ever beheld that early sky. Why do they call me through the sun?— Even the trees of Lebanon?

A SONG OF SOLOMON

King Solomon was the wisest man Of all that have been kings. He built an House unto the Lord; And he sang of creeping things.

Of creeping things, of things that fly, Or swim within the seas; Of the little weed along the wall, And of the cedar-trees.

And happier he, without mistake, Than all men since alive. God’s House he built; and he did make A thousand songs and five.

Ezra Pound

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 gray waters. Let the gods speak softly of us In days hereafter, the shadowy flowers of Orcus Remember thee.

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 that wingèd 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!

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 crass, 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?

N. Y.

My City, my beloved, my white! Ah, slender, Listen! Listen to me, and I will breathe into thee a soul. Delicately upon the reed, attend me!

_Now do I know that I am mad, For here are a million people surly with traffic; This is no maid. Neither could I play upon any reed if I had one._

My City, my beloved, Thou art a maid with no breasts, Thou art slender as a silver reed. Listen to me, attend me! And I will breathe into thee a soul, And thou shalt live for ever.

THE COMING OF WAR: ACTAEON

An image of Lethe, and the fields Full of faint light but golden, Gray cliffs, and beneath them A sea Harsher than granite, unstill, never ceasing;

High forms with the movement of gods, Perilous aspect; And one said: “This is Actaeon.” Actaeon of golden greaves!

Over fair meadows, Over the cool face of that field, Unstill, ever moving, Host of an ancient people, The silent cortège.

THE GARDEN

_En robe de parade. Samain_

Like a skein of loose silk blown against a wall She walks by the railing of a path in Kensington Gardens, And she is dying piece-meal of a sort of emotional anemia.

And round about there is a rabble Of the filthy, sturdy, unkillable infants of the very poor. They shall inherit the earth.

In her is the end of breeding. Her boredom is exquisite and excessive.

She would like some one to speak to her, And is almost afraid that I will commit that indiscretion.

ORTUS

How have I labored? How have I not labored To bring her soul to birth, To give these elements a name and a centre!

She is beautiful as the sunlight, and as fluid. She has no name, and no place. How have I labored to bring her soul into separation; To give her a name and her being!

Surely you are bound and entwined, You are mingled with the elements unborn; I have loved a stream and a shadow.

I beseech you enter your life. I beseech you learn to say “I” When I question you: For you are no part, but a whole; No portion, but a being.

THE CHOICE

It is true that you say the gods are more use to you than fairies, But for all that I have seen you on a high, white, noble horse, Like some strange queen in a story.

It is odd that you should be covered with long robes and trailing tendrils and flowers;

It is odd that you should be changing your face and resembling some other woman to plague me; It is odd that you should be hiding yourself in the cloud of beautiful women, who do not concern me.

And I, who follow every seed-leaf upon the wind! They will say that I deserve this.

THE GARRET

Come let us pity those who are better off than we are. Come, my friend, and remember that the rich have butlers and no friends, And we have friends and no butlers. Come let us pity the married and the unmarried.

Dawn enters with little feet like a gilded Pavlova, And I am near my desire. Nor has life in it aught better Than this hour of clear coolness, the hour of waking together.

DANCE FIGURE

_For the Marriage in Cana of Galilee_

Dark-eyed, O woman of my dreams, Ivory sandaled, There is none like thee among the dancers, None with swift feet.

I have not found thee in the tents, In the broken darkness. I have not found thee at the well-head Among the women with pitchers.

Thine arms are as a young sapling under the bark; Thy face as a river with lights.

White as an almond are thy shoulders; As new almonds stripped from the husk.

They guard thee not with eunuchs; Not with bars of copper. Gilt turquoise and silver are in the place of thy rest. A brown robe, with threads of gold woven in patterns, hast thou gathered about thee, O Nathat-Ikanaie, “Tree-at-the-river.”

As a rillet among the sedge are thy hands upon me; Thy fingers a frosted stream.

Thy maidens are white like pebbles; Their music about thee!

There is none like thee among the dancers; None with swift feet.

FROM “NEAR PÉRIGORD”

_Ed eran due in uno, ed uno in due. Inferno, XXVIII, 125._

I loved a woman. The stars fell from heaven. And always our two natures were in strife. Bewildering spring, and by the Auvezère Poppies and day’s eyes in the green émail Rose over us; and we knew all that stream, And our two horses had traced out the valleys; Knew the low flooded lands squared out with poplars, In the young days when the deep sky befriended. And great wings beat above us in the twilight, And the great wheels in heaven Bore us together ... surging ... and apart ... Believing we should meet with lips and hands.

High, high and sure ... and then the counterthrust: “Why do you love me? Will you always love me? But I am like the grass, I can not love you.” Or, “Love, and I love and love you, And hate your mind, not _you_, your soul, your hands.”

So to this last estrangement, Tairiran!

There shut up in his castle, Tairiran’s, She who had nor ears nor tongue save in her hands, Gone—ah, gone—untouched, unreachable! She who could never live save through one person, She who could never speak save to one person, And all the rest of her a shifting change, A broken bundle of mirrors ... !

AN IMMORALITY

Sing we for love and idleness, Naught else is worth the having.

Though I have been in many a land, There is naught else in living.

And I would rather have my sweet, Though rose-leaves die of grieving,

Than do high deeds in Hungary To pass all men’s believing.

THE STUDY IN AESTHETICS

The very small children in patched clothing, Being smitten with an unusual wisdom, Stopped in their play as she passed them And cried up from their cobbles: _Guarda! Ahi, guarda! ch’e b’ea!_

But three years after this I heard the young Dante, whose last name I do not know— For there are, in Sirmione, twenty-eight young Dantes and thirty-four Catulli; And there had been a great catch of sardines, And his elders Were packing them in the great wooden boxes For the market in Brescia, and he Leapt about, snatching at the bright fish And getting in both of their ways; And in vain they commanded him to _sta fermo_! And when they would not let him arrange The fish in the boxes He stroked those which were already arranged, Murmuring for his own satisfaction This identical phrase: _Ch’e b’ea_.

And at this I was mildly abashed.

FURTHER INSTRUCTIONS

Come, my songs, let us express our baser passions. Let us express our envy for the man with a steady job and no worry about the future.

You are very idle, my songs; I fear you will come to a bad end.

You stand about the streets. You loiter at the corners and bus-stops, You do next to nothing at all. You do not even express our inner nobility; You will come to a very bad end.

And I? I have gone half cracked. I have talked to you so much that I almost see you about me, Insolent little beasts! Shameless! Devoid of clothing!

But you, newest song of the lot, You are not old enough to have done much mischief. I will get you a green coat out of China With dragons worked upon it. I will get you the scarlet silk trousers From the statue of the infant Christ at Santa Maria Novella;

Lest they say we are lacking in taste, Or that there is no caste in this family.

VILLANELLE: THE PSYCHOLOGICAL HOUR

I

I had over-prepared the event— that much was ominous. With middle-aging care I had laid out just the right books, I almost turned down the right pages.

_Beauty is so rare a thing ... So few drink of my fountain._

So much barren regret! So many hours wasted! And now I watch from the window rain, wandering busses. Their little cosmos is shaken— the air is alive with that fact. In their parts of the city they are played on by diverse forces;

I had over-prepared the event. _Beauty is so rare a thing ... So few drink at my fountain._

Two friends: a breath of the forest ... Friends? Are people less friends because one has just, at last, found them?

Twice they promised to come. “_Between the night and morning_?”

_Beauty would drink of my mind._ Youth would awhile forget my youth is gone from me. Youth would hear speech of beauty.

II

(“Speak up! You have danced so stiffly? Someone admired your works, And said so frankly.

“Did you talk like a fool, The first night? The second evening?”

“_But_ they promised again: ‘Tomorrow at tea-time.’”)

III

Now the third day is here— no word from either; No word from her nor him, Only another man’s note: “Dear Pound, I am leaving England.”

BALLAD OF THE GOODLY FERE

_Simon Zelotes speaketh it somewhile after the Crucifixion._

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

LA FRAISNE

_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 rancor 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.

THE RIVER-MERCHANT’S WIFE: A LETTER

While my hair was still cut straight across my forehead I played about the front gate, pulling flowers. You came by on bamboo stilts, playing horse; You walked about my seat, playing with blue plums. And we went on living in the village of Chokan: Two small people, without dislike or suspicion.

At fourteen I married My Lord you. I never laughed, being bashful. Lowering my head, I looked at the wall. Called to, a thousand times, I never looked back.

At fifteen I stopped scowling, I desired my dust to be mingled with yours Forever and forever, and forever. Why should I climb the look-out?

At sixteen you departed, You went into far Ku-to-Yen, by the river of swirling eddies, And you have been gone five months. The monkeys make sorrowful noise overhead. You dragged your feet when you went out. By the gate now, the moss is grown, the different mosses, Too deep to clear them away! The leaves fall early this autumn, in wind. The paired butterflies are already yellow with August Over the grass in the west garden— They hurt me. I grow older. If you are coming down through the narrows of the river, Please let me know beforehand, And I will come out to meet you, As far as Cho-fu-Sa. _From the Chinese of Li Po._

EXILE’S LETTER

_From the Chinese of Li Po, usually considered the greatest poet of China: written by him while in exile about 760 A. D., to the Hereditary War-Councillor of Sho, “recollecting former companionship.”_