UMBRA

»f

EZRA POUND

UMBRA

THE EARLY POEMS OF

EZRA POUND

All that he now 'wishes to keep in circulation from

" Personae? "Exultations? " Ripostes," etc. With

translations from Guido Cavalcanti and

Arnaut Daniel and poems by

the late T. E. HULME

LONDON ELKIN MATHEWS, CORK STREET

MCMXX

THE RIVERSIDE PRESS LIMITED. EDINBURGH

DEDICATION FROM " PERSONA E THIS BOOK IS FOR

MARY MOORE

OF TRENTON, IF SHE WANTS IT

Other volumes from which this is collected were dedicated to Wm. Brooke Smith (in memoriam) ; to Carlos T. Chester ; to Wm. Carlos Williams, and the intended "Arnaut Daniel " to Wm. Pierce Shepard.

One hundred copies of this Edition have been printed on English hand made paper, for England and America, numbered and signed by the Author, of which this is

CONTENTS

PERSONAE :—

PAGE

Grace before Song . . . . . .11

La Fraisne ....... 12

Cino ........ 14

Na Audiart ....... 16

Villonaud for this Yule . . . . .19

A Villonaud : Ballad of the Gibbet . . . .20

Mesmerism . . . . . . . 22

Famam Librosque Cano ..... 23

Praise of Ysolt ...... 25

For E. McC . . . . . . .27

At the Heart o' Me . . . . . .28

The White Stag . . . . . . .29

In Durance ....... 30

Marvoil ....... 32

And Thus in Nineveh ..... 34

EXULTATIONS :—

Guido invites you thus . . 35

Night Litany ....... 36

Sestina : Altaforte ...... 38

Piere Vidal Old ...... 40

Ballad of the Goodly Fere . . . . .43

Laudantes Decem Pulchritudinis Johannae Templi . . 45

Aux Belles de Londres ..... 49

Francesca ....... 49

Prayer ........ 50

The Tree. (From A Lume Spento) . . . .50

On His Own Face in a Glass . . . .51

The Eyes . . . . . . .51

Nils Lykke ........ 52

Planh for the Young English King . . . -53

Alba . . . . . . . -55

Planh ........ 56

FROM "CANZONI": —

PAGE

Au Jardin . >: v«;: . . • .. « 57

FROM "POETRY AND DRAMA" FOR FEBRUARY 1912:—

Oboes I. For a Beery Voice , . . * 58

II. After Heine . . * . . •"•£ 58

RIPOSTES :—

Silet . ,» . . . . . '' f ~; ;'--. 59

In Exitum Cuiusdam . . . .',-'• j, - . 59

The Tomb at Akr £aar ', , • • > * 60

Portrait d'une Ferame , ••'».-•• . . . . 62

N.Y. . -,-:;/: v;.C- .;'.: . , . , . . .63

A Girl. , . v' • '•; ".' / .. v , . . . . 63

"Phasellus Ille" . 'V; -;V . • • • 64

An Object . ?v '--'\ .; ^ v;« . . 64

Quies .... •...'••». . j, . 64

The Seafarer . . . ; > V ./ . 65

The Cloak "., ^, ;^j : . . ' -;.'. . 68

Acfyua . » " . » ^; . ;. . 69

Apparuit v '-; . . /# t . . 70

The Needle . v. - '.. ^ ,-; \ ^ , . 71

Sub Mare . V V » t » . . 71

Plunge. . V * :'>, • ; • ' • . 72

A Virginal . f.\ ;v . . >> . 73

Pan is Dead . ,. ;; '.^': v- ,v ; ,7 » . 74

An Immorality : > ,- , . *,. - . • • 75

Dieu ! Qu'il la fait . . V .- * . 75

The Picture . . . '* -";. . ^ . 76

Of Jacopo Del Sellaio / .. ... 76

The Return . >^- • v : » > • 77 Effects of Music upon a Company of People —

I. Deux Mouvements . . * . /:;*. 78

II. From a Thing by Schumann . < . : '.'.« 79

Phanopoeia, I., II., and III. . f:p| " '. , '..., 80

The Alchemist, unpublished 1912 .. . . . 82

Cantus Planus . *< V *\ V ^•^' *-.. V 84

8

TRANSLATIONS

FROM THE SONNETS OF GUIDO CAVALCANTI : —

PAGE

Voi, che per gli occhi miei passaste al core . . 87

lo vidi gli occhi dove Amor si mise .- ' » , . . 88

O Donna mia, non vedestu colui . . . .89

Gli miei folli occhi, che'n prima guardaro . . .90

Tu m'hai si piena di dolor la mente . . .91

Chi e questa che vien, ch'ogni uom la mira . . 92

Perche non furo a me gli occhi miei spenti . . . 93

Avete in voi li fieri, e la verdura , • < . 94

Certo mie rime a te mandar vogliendo ; . .!." v • 95

Morte gentil, rimedio de' cattivi . :" ,' ; . . 96

Una figura de la donna mia . ' L» -.;•'• i « , . 97

O cieco mondo, di lusinghe pieno . . . • 97

(Called a Madrigale)

Poiche di doglia cor convien ch'io porto . . .98

(Fragment of a Canzone, miscalled a Ballata)

FROM THE BALLATE OF GUIDO CAVALCANTI : —

lo vidi donne con la donna mia . . . .99

Se m'hai del tutto obliato mercede . . . 100

Veggio negli occhi de la donna mia . . . 101 La forte, e nova mia disavventura .... 101

Era in pensier d'Amor quand' io trovai . . . 103

Perch' io non spero di tornar gia mai . . .105

Quando di morte mi convien trar vita . . . 106

Sol per pieta ti prego giovinezza . . . . 108 Io priego voi che di dolor parlate .... 109

FIVE CANZONI OF ARNAUT DANIEL : — l

L'Aura Amara . . • . . . .no

Autet e bas entrels prims fuoills . «• . . 114

Glamour and Indigo (Dotttz brats e critz] . . .116

Lancan 'son passat li giure . . . . .119

Ans quel cim reston de branchas . . . . 121

1 " Sols sui que sai," from this series, appears in Quia Pauper Amavi\ further study of Arnaut in Instigations.

THE COMPLETE POETICAL WORKS OF T. E. HULME :—

Jf PAGE

Autumn . . ... . . . . . 123

Mana Aboda . . . . !• ~ •-' - . .123

Above the Dock % : . . . •• . , m 12^

The Embankment . . . , . . 124

Conversion . . . , . . . I24

I25

(Abbreviated from the Conversation of Mr T. E. H.)

NOTES : —

1. Note to "La Fraisne" . . . . .127

2. Personae and Portraits . . . . .128 Bibliography . . . . . . .128

10

PERSONAE

GRACE BEFORE SONG

LORD GOD of heaven that with mercy dight Th' alternate prayer-wheel of the night and light Eternal hast 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.

Evanescent mirrors every opal one Of such his splendour as their compass is, Be bold, My Songs, to seek such death as this.

ii

UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY

LA FRAISNE'

SCENE : The Ash Wood of Mahern

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

1 Prefatory note at end of volume. 12

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 . . ;V

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.

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 . . .

N

(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,

0 Sinistro.

1 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.

" 'Polio 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 !

'Polio 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 o'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.

15

NA AUDIART

Que be-m vols mal

NOTE : Anyone 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 him1' 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, 16

Just for the swirl

Thy satins made 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.1

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.2 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,

1 I.e. in illumed manuscript. 2 Reincarnate.

B 17

Thou wert once she

Audiart, Audiart For whose fairness one forgave

Audiart, Audiart Que be-m vols mal.

18

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 /) l 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.

1 Signum Nativitatis. 19

A VILLONAUD : BALLAD OF THE

GIBBET OR THE SONG OF THE SIXTH COMPANION

SCENE : " En ce bourdel ou tenons nostre 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 : " Freres humains qui apres nous <vi<vez."

DRINK ye a skoal for the gallows tree ! Fraiu^ois 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, l Lips shrunk back for the wind's caress As lips shrink back when we feel the strain

1 Certain gibbeted corpses used to be coated with tar as a preservative ; thus one scarecrow served as warning for considerable time. See Hugo, UHomme qui Rit.

20

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 !

Fra^ois 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 ! Fran9ois and Margot and thee and me :

These that we loved shall God love less And smite alway at their faibleness ?

Skoal ! ! to the gallowsj and then pray we :

God damn his hell out speedily

And bring their souls to his " Haulte Citee."

21

MESMERISM

" And a cafs in the tuater-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 !

22

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

23

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 Shows 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 / have not And lost mid-page Such age

As his pardons the habit, He analyses form and thought to see How I 'scaped immortality.

24

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, lips 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,

25

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 wonderfolk, 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 mother of songs,

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 ? 26

FOR E. McC

That 'was my counter-blade under Leonardo Terrene, 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 tifidar^ it is the sword that speaks

"/» me '."!

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.

1 Sword-rune " If thy heart fail thee trust not in me." 27

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 ? 28

What should avail me,

O my beloved, Here in this " Middan-gard " l

what should avail me Out of the booty and

gain of my goings ?

1 Anglo-Saxon "Earth."

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.

the white stag, Fame, we're a-hunting, Bid the world's hounds come to horn ! "

29

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 reaches not beyond

My 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.

And 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 me wards, bearing old magic.

But for all that, I am homesick after mine own kind And would meet kindred even as I am, Flesh-shrouded bearing the secret. " All they that with strange sadness "

30

Have the earth in mockery, 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 ;

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 . . ."

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 Pol in, 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.

32

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

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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 x

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, Raana, 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."

34

EXULTATIONS

GUIDO INVITES YOU THUS

" LAPPO I leave behind and Dante too, Lo, I would sail the seas with thee alone ! Talk me no love talk, no bought-cheap fiddl'ry, Mine is the ship and thine the merchandise, All the blind earth knows not th'emprise Whereto thou calledst and whereto I call.

Lo, I have seen thee bound about with dreams, Lo, I have known thy heart and its desire ; Life, all of it, my sea, and all men's streams Are fused in it as flames of an altar fire !

Lo, thou hast voyaged not ! The ship is mine.'

1 The reference is to Dante's sonnet " Guido vorrei . . ."

35

NIGHT LITANY

O DIEU, purifiez nos coeurs !

Purifiez nos coeurs !

Yea the lines hast thou laid unto me in pleasant places,

And the beauty of this thy Venice

hast thou shown unto me

Until is its loveliness become unto me a thing of tears.

O God, what great kindness

have we done in times past

and forgotten it, That thou givest this wonder unto us,

O God of waters ?

O God of the night,

What great sorrow Cometh unto us,

That thou thus repayest us Before the time of its coming ?

O God of silence,

Purifiez nos cceurs, Purifiez nos coeurs. For we have seen The glory of the shadow of the likeness of thine handmaid,

Yea, the glory of the shadow of thy Beauty hath walked

Upon the shadow of the waters In this thy Venice.

And before the holiness Of the shadow of thy handmaid Have I hidden mine eyes, O God of waters.

O God of silence,

Purifiez nos cceurs,

Purifiez nos cceurs, O God of waters,

make clean our hearts within us And our lips to show forth thy praise,

For I have seen the Shadow of this thy Venice Floating upon the waters,

And thy stars

Have seen this thing out of their far courses Have they seen this thing,

O God of waters, Even as are thy stars Silent unto us in their far-coursing, Even so is mine heart

become silent within me.

Purifiez nos coeurs 0 God of the silence ',

Purifiez nos cceurs 0 God of waters.

37

SESTINA: ALTAFORTE

LOQUITUR : En Bertrans de Born.

Dante Alighieri put this man in hell for that he was a stirrer

up of strife.

Eccovi !

Judge ye !

Have I dug him up again ?

The scene is at his castle, Altaforte. " Papiols " is his jongleur. " The Leopard," the device of Richard (Coeur de Lion).

I

DAMN it all ! all this our South stinks peace.

You whoreson dog, Papiols, come ! Let's to music !

I have no life save when the swords clash.

But ah ! when I see the standards gold, vair, purple,

opposing

And the broad fields beneath them turn crimson, Then howl I my heart nigh mad with rejoicing.

II

In hot summer have I great rejoicing

When the tempests kill the earth's foul peace,

And the lightnings from black heav'n flash crimson,

And the fierce thunders roar me their music

And the winds shriek through the clouds mad, opposing,

And through all the riven skies God's swords clash.

Ill

Hell grant soon we hear again the swords clash ! And the shrill neighs of destriers in battle rejoicing, Spiked breast to spiked breast opposing ! Better one hour's stour than a year's peace With fat boards, bawds, wine and frail music ! Bah ! there's no wine like the blood's crimson !

38

IV

And I love to see the sun rise blood-crimson. And I watch his spears through the dark clash And it fills all my heart with rejoicing And pries wide my mouth with fast music When I see him so scorn and defy peace, His lone might 'gainst all darkness opposing.

The man who fears war and squats opposing My words for stour, hath no blood of crimson But is fit only to rot in womanish peace Far from where worth's won and the swords clash For the death of such sluts I go rejoicing; Yea, I fill all the air with my music.

VI

Papiols, Papiols, to the music !

There's no sound like to swords swords opposing,

No cry like the battle's rejoicing

When our elbows and swords drip the crimson

And our charges 'gainst " The Leopard's " rush clash.

May God damn for ever all who cry " Peace ! "

VII

And let the music of the swords make them crimson ! Hell grant soon we hear again the swords clash ! Hell blot black for alway the thought " Peace " !

39

PIERE VIDAL OLD

It is of Piere Vidal, the fool par excellence of all Provence, of whom the tale tells how he ran mad, as a wolf, because of his love for Loba of Penautier, and how men hunted him with dogs through the mountains of Cabaret and brought him for dead to the dwelling of this Loba (she-wolf) of Penautier, and how she and her Lord had him healed and made welcome, and he stayed some time at that court. He speaks :

WHEN I but think upon the great dead days

And turn my mind upon that splendid madness,

Lo ! I do curse my strength

And blame the sun his gladness ;

For that the one is dead

And the red sun mocks my sadness.

Behold me, Vidal, that was fool of fools ! Swift as the king wolf was I and as strong When tall stags fled me through the alder brakes, And every jongleur knew me in his song, And the hounds fled and the deer fled And none fled over long.

Even the grey pack knew me and knew fear. God ! how the swiftest hind's blood spurted hot Over the sharpened teeth and purpling lips ! Hot was that hind's blood yet it scorched me not As did first scorn, then lips of the Penautier ! Aye ye are fools, if ye think time can blot

From Piere Vidal's remembrance that blue night. God ! but the purple of the sky was deep ! Clear, deep, translucent, so the stars me seemed Set deep in crystal; and because my sleep — Rare visitor — came not, — the Saints I guerdon For that restlessness — Piere set to keep

4°

One more fool's vigil with the hollyhocks.

Swift came the Loba, as a branch that's caught,

Torn, green and silent in the swollen Rhone,

Green was her mantle, close, and wrought

Of some thin silk stuff that's