Ezra Pound Poems

The bashful Arides
Has married an ugly wife,
He was bored with his manner of life,
Indifferent and discouraged he thought he might as
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Red knights, brown bishops, bright queens,
Striking the board, falling in strong ‘L's of
colour.
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On the loan exhibit of his paintings at the Tate Gallery.

You also, our first great,
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BALLAD FOR THE TIMES' SPECIAL SILVER NUMBER

Sez the Times a silver lining
Is what has set us pining,
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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.
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1 his papier-mâché, which you see, my friends,
Saith 'twas the worthiest of editors.
Its mind was made up in 'the seventies',
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The girl in the tea shop
Is not so beautiful as she was,
The August has worn against her.
She does not get up the stairs so eagerly;
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O helpless few in my country, remnant enslaved!

Artists broken against her,
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The pomps of butchery, financial power,
Told 'em to die in war, and then to save,
Then cut their saving to the half or lower;
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I even I, am he who knoweth the roads
Through the sky, and the wind thereof is my body.
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