Ezra Pound Poem

L’aura Amara

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                          from Arnaut Daniel
l
The bitter air
Strips panoply
From trees
Where softer winds set leaves,
And glad,
Beaks
Now in brakes are coy,
Scarce peep that wee
Mates
And un-mates.
        What gaud’s the work?
        What good the glees?
What curse
I strive to shake!
Me hath she cast from high,
In fell disease
I lie, and deathly fearing.

ll
So clear the flare
That first lit me
To seize
Her whom my soul believes;
If cad
Sneaks,
Blabs, slanders, my joy
Counts little fee
Baits
And their hates.
        I scorn their perk
        And preen, at ease.
Disburse
Can she, and wake
Such firm delights, That I
Am hers, froth, lees
Bigod! from toe to earring.

lll
Amor, look yare!
Know certainly
The keys:
How she thy suit receives;
No add
Piques.
‘Twere folly to annoy
I’m true, so dree
Fates;
No debates
        Shake me, nor jerk,
        My verities
Turn terse,
And yet I ache;
Her lips, not snows that fly
Have potencies
To slake, to cool my searing.

lV
Behold my prayer,
(Or company
Of these)
Seeks whom such height achieves;
Well clad
Seeks
Her, and would not cloy.
Heart apertly
States
Thought. Hope waits
        ‘Gainst death to irk:
          False brevities
And worse!
To her I raik,
Sole her; all others‘ dry
Felicities
I count not worth the leering.

V
Ah, fair face, where,  Each quality
But frees
One pride-shaft more, that cleaves
Me; mad frieks
(O‘ thy beck) destroy,
And mockery
Baits
Me, and rates.
        Yet I not shirk
        Thy velleities,
Averse
Me not, nor slake
Desire. God draws not nigh
To Dome, with pleas
Wherein’s so little veering.

VI
Now chant prepare,
And melody
To please
The king, who’ll judge thy sheaves.
Worth, sad,
Sneaks
Here; double employ
Hath there. Get thee
Plates
Full, and cates,
        Gifts, go! Nor lurk
        Here till decrees
Reverse,
And ring thou take
Straight t’Arago I’d ply
Cross the wide seas
But ‘Rome’ disturbs my hearing.

Coda
At midnight mirk
In secrecies
I nurse
My served make
In heart; nor try
My melodies
At other’s door not mearing.

L'Homme Moyen Sensuel
L'Art

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