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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.