Ezra Pound

(30 October 1885 – 1 November 1972 / Hailey / Idaho)

Ezra Pound Poems

81. Further Instructions 1/3/2003
82. Gentildonna 4/1/2010
83. Grace Before Song 1/1/2004
84. Guido Invites You Thus 4/1/2010
85. Heather 4/1/2010
86. Her Monument, The Image Cut Thereon 4/1/2010
87. Historion 1/1/2004
88. Histrion 1/3/2003
89. Homage To Quintus Septimus Florentis Christianus 4/1/2010
90. Homage To Sextus Propertius - I 4/1/2010
91. Homage To Sextus Propertius - Ii 4/1/2010
92. Homage To Sextus Propertius - Iii 4/1/2010
93. Homage To Sextus Propertius - Iv 4/1/2010
94. Homage To Sextus Propertius - Ix 4/1/2010
95. Homage To Sextus Propertius - V 4/1/2010
96. Homage To Sextus Propertius - Vi 4/1/2010
97. Homage To Sextus Propertius - Vii 4/1/2010
98. Homage To Sextus Propertius - Viii 4/1/2010
99. Homage To Sextus Propertius - X 4/1/2010
100. Homage To Sextus Propertius - Xi 4/1/2010
101. Homage To Sextus Propertius - Xii 4/1/2010
102. Horae Beatae Inscripto 4/1/2010
103. Hugh Selwyn Mauberly (Part I) 1/3/2003
104. Image From D'Orleans 4/1/2010
105. Impressions Of Francois-Marie Arouet (De Voltaire) 4/1/2010
106. In A Station Of The Metro 1/3/2003
107. In Durance 4/1/2010
108. In Exitum Cuiusdam 4/1/2010
109. In Tempore Senectutis 1/1/2004
110. In The Old Age Of The Soul 1/1/2004
111. Invern 1/1/2004
112. Ione, Dead The Long Year 1/3/2003
113. Ité 1/3/2003
114. La Fraisne 4/1/2010
115. La Regina Avrillouse 1/3/2003
116. Ladies 4/1/2010
117. Lament Of The Frontier Guard 1/3/2003
118. Langue D'Oc 4/1/2010
119. L'Art 1/3/2003
120. Leave-Taking Near Shoku 4/1/2010
Best Poem of Ezra Pound

A Girl

The tree has entered my hands,
The sap has ascended my arms,
The tree has grown in my breast -
Downward,
The branches grow out of me, like arms.

Tree you are,
Moss you are,
You are violets with wind above them.
A child - so high - you are,
And all this is folly to the world.

Read the full of A Girl

Histrion

No man hath dared to write this thing as yet,
And yet I know, how that the souls of all men great
At times pass athrough us,
And we are melted into them, and are not
Save reflexions of their souls.
Thus am I Dante for a space and am
One Francois Villon, ballad-lord and thief,
Or am such holy ones I may not write
Lest blasphemy be writ against my name;

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