Ezra Pound

from Canto LXXXI

           a leaf in the current
                                            at my grates no Althea
Ere the season died a-cold
Borne upon a zephyr’s shoulder
I rose through the aureate sky        
                                  Lawes and Jenkyns guard thy rest
                                  Dolmetsch ever be thy guest,
Has he tempered the viol’s wood
To enforce   both the grave   and the acute?
Has he curved us the bowl of the lute?
                                 Lawes and Jenkyns guard thy rest
                                  Dolmetsch ever be thy guest,
Hast ‘ou fashioned so airy a mood
        To draw up leaf from the root?
Hast ‘ou found   a cloud   so light
         As seemed neither mist nor shade?   

                                 Then resolve me, tell me aright
                                  If Waller sang or Dowland played.
              Your eyen two wol sleye me sodenly
               I may the beauté of hem nat susteyne 

And for 180 years almost nothing.

Ed ascoltando al leggier mormorio
        there came new subtlety of eyes into my tent,
whether of spirit or hypostasis,
        but what the blindfold hides
or at carneval
                                 nor any pair showed anger
         Saw but the eyes and stance between the eyes,
color, diastasis,
         careless or unaware it had not the
     whole tent’s room 
nor was the place for the full ειδωσ     
 interpass, penetrate
        casting but shade beyond the lights

              sky’s clear
              night’s sea
              green of the mountain pool
              shone from the unmasked eyes in half-mask’s space.
What thou lovest well remains,
                                                                   the rest is dross
What thou lov’st well shall not be reft from thee
What thou lov’st well is thy true heritage
Whose world, or mine or theirs
                                                                  or is it of none?

First came the seen, then thus the palpable
         Elysium, though it were in the halls of hell,
What thou lovest well is thy true heritage
What thou lov’st well shall not be reft from thee

The ant’s a centaur in his dragon world.
Pull down thy vanity, it is not man
Made courage, or made order, or made grace,
          Pull down thy vanity, I say pull down.
Learn of the green world what can be thy place
In scaled invention or true artistry,
Pull down thy vanity,
                                   Paquin pull down!
The green casque has outdone your elegance.

“Master thyself, then others shall thee beare”
       Pull down thy vanity
Thou art a beaten dog beneath the hail,
A swollen magpie in a fitful sun,
Half black half white
Nor knowst’ou wing from tail
Pull down thy vanity
                        How mean thy hates
Fostered in falsity,               
                        Pull down thy vanity,
Rathe to destroy, niggard in charity,
Pull down thy vanity,
                        I say pull down.

But to have done instead of not doing
                        this is not vanity
To have, with decency, knocked
That a Blunt should open
                 To have gathered from the air a live tradition
or from a fine old eye the unconquered flame
This is not vanity.
      Here error is all in the not done,
all in the diffidence that faltered...