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Poetry: Pound

    Ver Novum

    Ezra Pound (1885-1972)

    Thou that art sweeter than all orchards' breath

    And clearer than the sun gleam after rain

    Thou that savest my soul's self from death

    As scorpion's is, of self-inflicted pain

    Thou that dost ever make demand for the best I have to give

    Gentle to utmost courteously bidding only my pure-purged

       spirits live:

    Thou that spellest ever gold from out my dross

    Mage powerful and subtly sweet

    Gathering fragments that there be no loss

    Behold the brighter gains lie at thy feet.

    If any flower mortescent lay in sun-withering dust

    If any old forgotten sweetness of a former drink

    Naught but stilt fragrance of autumnal flowers

    Mnemonic of spring's bloom and parody of powers

    That make the spring the mistress of our earth--

    If such a perfume of a dulled rebirth

    Lingered, obliviate with o'er mistrust,

    Marescent, fading on the dolorous brink

    That border is to that marasmic sea

    Where all desire's harmony

    Tendeth and endeth in sea monotone

    Blendeth wave and wind and rocks most drear

    Into dull sub-harmonies of light;out grown

    From man's compass of intelligence,

    Where love and fear meet

    Having ceased to be:

    All this, and such disconsolate finery

    As doth remain in this gaunt castle of my heart

    Thou gatherest of thy clemency

    Sifting the fair and foul apart,

    Thou weavest for thy self a sun-gold bower

    By subtily incanted raed

    Every unfavorable and ill-happed hour

    Turneth blind and potently is stayed

    Before the threshold of thy dwelling place

    Holy, as beneath all-holy wings

    Some sacred covenant had passed thereby

    Wondrous as wind murmurings

    That night thy fingers laid on mine their benediction

    When thru the interfoliate strings

    Joy sang among God's earthly trees

    Yea in this house of thine that I have found at last

    Meseemeth a high heaven's antepast

    And thou thyself art unto me

    Both as the glory head and sun

    Casting thine own anthelion

    Thru this dull mist

    My soul was wont to be.

    This poem is one of many published by the EServer, a nonprofit collective.